


A Reason To Fight

by Ulfrsmal



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blasphemy, Blood, Change Of Religion, Character Study, Fighting, Heahmund gets really promiscuous and is the only one who blames him for it, Loss of Religion, M/M, Marking, Mentions of Slavery, Mentions of self-harm, Old Norse, Present Tense, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Scars, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, aka self-flagellation in religious context and slapping oneself, aka thralls and Heahmund being seen as Ivar’s thrall/pet, blowjob, mentions of past wounds, religious trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28918764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulfrsmal/pseuds/Ulfrsmal
Summary: Bishop Heahmund was captured by the Great Heathen Army in what he deems the greatest loss of his entire life. God’s punishment for him is to serve Ivar the Boneless – a ruthless General and a masterful Strategist. As days pass and nights grant him chances to sin without having to repent, Heahmund comes to realise exactly how he’s been hurt by those he was once sworn to protect… and gains new feelings for his young and handsome captor.
Relationships: Heahmund/Ivar (Vikings)
Comments: 100
Kudos: 93





	1. Monster

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a song by Disturbed, but the lyrics (mostly) don’t have anything to do with this fic. This is also meant to be a series, because my last one-shot gave me IDEAS about Heahmund and his faith, and I must be the change I wish to see in this world, Gods damn it!
> 
> The words in languages that aren’t English are translated in the End Notes of each chapter.
> 
> Enjoy – and please tell me if I was disrespectful of Ivar’s disability at any point. I WILL correct it if I was.
> 
> [Updates at least once per week! Chapter lenght may vary.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a song by [Disturbed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypfG9jwxXM4) (oh and another by [Skillet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mjlM_RnsVE), and another by [EXO](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSH-FVVtTf0)), but none of those songs’ lyrics don’t have anything to do with this fic.
> 
> Consider this an introductory chapter to set the tone of the whole fic. Enjoy!

Bishop Heahmund kneels to place a reverential kiss upon the central point of the cross formed by the sword’s hilt and blade. Today is a rare change of pace; one that he wasn’t expecting to come so soon. The ruckus around him grows to a point, although not a single voice disturbs him while he’s on his knees. Still, he can feel amused gazes locked on his form from all angles. These Heathens are more curious than he’d thought them as; Heahmund decides to take it as proof of their everchanging nature, and not as a failure at reading them from his part. Their stares concentrate on his right hand, on his sword-arm; they’re most likely measuring the raw strength of it. Heahmund reopens his eyes slowly, gathering his thoughts.

The first thing he sees is his opponent standing perhaps five or six paces away: five for Heahmund, six for him. Heahmund has known taller and burlier men than himself, but this one seems massive by comparison. Blonde braids fall around his bare shoulders, fresh blue ink shines between his marked pectorals, and his simple trousers are laced so tight around his hips that there surely are marks on his sun-kissed skin. If Heahmund were not so focused on the fight to be had, his own gaze would be roaming as freely over this mountain of a warrior as those of the shield-maidens behind him.

The _Vikingr_ hasn’t even got the decency of waiting until Heahmund has risen to attack him. All muscle and no brains, this one. Just as the Bishop’s clever mind and over-wrung instincts expected.

It’s quite easy to roll to the side, evading the axe swinging down towards his chest, and quickly move around the warrior, always facing him. What annoys Heahmund to no end is that his grip is not correct; he’s holding the sword like he wants to thrust it behind him, not attack an enemy charging directly from his front. He suppresses a growl. Since his blade cannot slide into that muscular, exposed back, he hits it with his sword’s pommel instead.

The _Vikingr_ roars a battle-cry of a laugh at the hit, shouts a quick line in Old Norse that Heahmund doesn’t catch. It’s spoken much too quickly for his level; the words, too guttural coming from a roused-up warrior’s throat. Heahmund only knows that it sounded just like the Heathen commands and pained screams still resounding in his ears whenever he closes his eyes.

A small fire starts deep within him. There has been no warning, no circumstance foretelling its arrival. He instantly recognises it. He knows what this hunger craves, what his battle-lust demands of him. Oh, how he wishes he could give in…

There are too many Heathens around him, though. The blade in his hands is shorter than his own sword, and yet heavier somehow. Heahmund already knew his weapon is of much finer quality than the coarse irons of Heathen axes, but this fact confirms it in full. At least they had the decency to let him take a sword, dilapidated and half-rusted as it might be, instead of forcing him to fight with the axe he’s not proficient with. If he were to give in to his instincts, to his lust, and downright kill this blonde warrior, all spectators would rain down on him like the Hordes of Hell. There would be no escape possible for him if it came to that. Heahmund knows he could take down at least a dozen of them; but the last word would be said by Heathen lips, their sheer numbers vastly overpowering him.

Therefore, Heahmund simply takes a breath that does little to stabilise him and adopts an aggressive stance. His gaze focuses on his opponent. He may not be able to go in for the kill he craves; however, there are many different forms of inflicting suffering without taking a life. The only real issue, if it can even be called that, is that Heahmund knows he’s not as creative in such a bloody craft as the boy general who captured him. Oh, that young one would have a field day in this situation…

The warrior twirls his axe to change his grip; now he looks even more aggressive than he did before. Heahmund gives him a once-over, quickly reading off him that this is not a _Vikingr_ he could defeat by merely parrying his weapon to the side. True, they are both fighting with one-handed weapons so that neither will have a clear upper hand; but it still is a sword-versus-axe situation.

The underlying problem, the one that could very well be Heahmund’s undoing if he’s not careful, is that Dane Axes such as the one in the _Vikingr’s_ hands are built to catch a regular sword in their curve. They’re heavier though, Heahmund reminds himself; they cannot be turned as quickly as a sword can. However, that fact does not matter for warriors as muscular as the one in front of him. Heahmund can admit to his innards that he would quickly lose a contest of brute strength against this one; he’s built more for agility and well-timed blows than for overpowering all opponents without any effort. This _Vikingr_ is in that latter camp, though.

The shortest hairs at the back of Heahmund’s neck stand on end as he watches his opponent. They move in circles around each other, measuring one another with careful eyes and even more careful grips on their weapons. The warrior’s lips draw up in a filthy smirk that has an equally filthy shiver running down Heahmund’s spine.

The Bishop offers a mental prayer to God, pleading for his aim to be true, for his arm to be firm. He possesses a blind trust in his abilities, too used to his earthly body’s limitations and strengths – divine intervention has saved his soul before and He might save his life today, too.

Heahmund rolls his shoulders with the easy confidence that only experience can bring. As an intimidation tactic, it utterly fails; he can clearly see the warrior has the same trust in his own abilities as Heahmund does in his. Their levels of proficiency with their respective weapons are well-matched.

This bout will not be determined by skill alone, then. Heahmund quickly decides his course of action with the knowledge he’s gleamed so far; he needs to gain the upper hand based on war-tactics and quick decision-making. He’s shorter, less bulky. He should also be agiler. His battle-instincts rebels against having to resort to a skirmisher’s tricks to win. His battle-lust roars its own agreement. This will not be such a difficult fight, after all. It’ll be far from the first time he’s had to pull these stunts on physically stronger foes – and he still has God by his side, aiding him in every strike. No Heathen on foot will ever match him for as long as God remains ever-watchful of his fervent servant.

The _Vikingr_ snarls before letting out another boisterous battle-cry as he attacks; he probably thinks that the Christian pet of Ivar the Boneless can only parry and evade now that he only has a half-rusted sword and no armour on. A grave mistake – one that, God willing, Heahmund will take full advantage of.

The men watching the combat groan almost in unison when Heahmund’s might strikes true. The _Vikingr_ roars a much different sound, suddenly realising that he’s fallen right into Heahmund’s trap. The fire inside the Bishop burns higher. The warrior bleeds from the shoulder; the scar will kiss the starting points of the intricate motifs of his tattoos. Heahmund fixates on the crimson red pouring out of him.

The warrior blindly attacks him again. Heahmund holds his own with stormy eyes and tensed muscles.

“ _G_ _nógr_!”

Heahmund’s attention instantly turns to the shouted command, although his gaze remains steadfast on the man charging towards him. The warrior’s every muscle tenses as he stops mid-attack, undoubtedly heeding the voice that ordered the fight to be broken off. When he throws his Dane Axe to the ground, Heahmund lowers his own weapon and marginally relaxes his stance. Someone gasps behind him. He knows it’s due to how his back’s muscles rippled, half-visible through the thin undershirt he usually wears between armour and skin. If he weren’t so aflame, he would be cold; England’s weather truly does not forgive those who don’t dress for it, benign as it also may be when compared to the one in the Northlands.

Even though the onlookers have all shifted their attention away from him, even though his opponent has thrown his weapon aside, Heahmund cannot help but remain on guard. Unbound lust roars in time with the thundering of blood in his temples. His battle-instincts all tell him that the fight is not yet over, in spite of what the atmosphere around him might convey.

“ _Mínn vísi_.” The _Vikingr_ says to the newcomer, his voice devoid of the growl from before. He’s still bleeding profusely from the shoulder. Heahmund can see pain flashing through his factions. A shame such a powerful body is not matched by a handsome face…

Heahmund doesn’t take his eyes off the burly warrior, although he already knows he won’t attack him any further. Lust coils tight around Heahmund’s middle as soon as he notices how the warrior’s eyes suddenly cast over with a thin layer that surely blurs his vision. The Bishop has seen it before in many an enemy; he’d usually revel in being the cause of such acute fear, but he cannot do so today. Heahmund drows the growl that threatens with leaving his throat. He knows he’s not the cause behind this _Vikingr_ being brought to the edge until all that remains is a fight-or-flight instinct.

Curiously, and contrary to what Heahmund has learnt to expect from all Heathens, this beast of a man chooses to flee. A petite woman takes off after him with a piece of bright blue fabric bunched in her arms; the sleeves dangle on either side of her as she runs until she bundles them up too, unwilling to trip on them. Heahmund allows himself to chuckle, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards in a shadow of a sneer. It may have been by proxy, but he now stands as the victor. There is a certain pride in that – and a new, thankful prayer to be offered to God Almighty.

“Bishop.”

It’s the same voice that called the battle off. Strangely, it sounds much softer in English than it did in Old Norse. There must be no direct translation of his holy title into this guttural, Heathen language that’s now spoken all around. Heahmund lets the smirk ease off his face, but keeps the sneer within his gaze. A Heathen is a Heathen is his enemy, after all.

Ivar the Boneless is always a sight to behold; and this instant is no exception. He lumbers forward with the help of his crutch, metal rings supporting his legs. It makes him ebb slightly to one side as he takes each step, although he corrects it right as it happens. The onlookers quickly dissolve around him; apparently everybody has a better place to be in when the boy general is around. Heahmund would be amused by the obvious fear they all harbour for their own leader, but he never gets the chance.

Incredibly blue eyes focus on him, going from his own grey ones to the expanse of his shoulders. Heahmund doesn’t need to look down at himself to know his undershirt has shifted at some point during the fight, exposing his left collarbone and the curve of his shoulder. He resists the mad urge to tidy himself up when the intense scrutiny follows the shirt’s hem around his cleavage, and back up by the rope from which a wooden cross hangs under the Bishop’s clothes. Heahmund withstands the weight of that gaze as best he can when his chest still heaves from the excitement of the combat, from how tight and low his lust has gathered in his belly.

“Leave the sword.” Ivar already speaks English with only a shadow of a Norse accent, though Heahmund has observed he has a marked tendency to pronounce certain sounds from his throat, like one does in Old Norse. He decides to obey the command; the alternative is dire, for he still remains in the Great Heathen Army’s forward-camp, surrounded by Heathens and treated as merely more than another slave. By God, it hasn’t even been a full week since he was taken, and he’s already going mad… “Walk with me, Bishop.”

“What did the warrior call you?” Heahmund questions in English as he walks just slightly closer to the boy, still on guard. It seems natural to carry their conversation in English; Ivar is the only Ragnarsson who speaks it this fluently, and most if not all other Heathens simply cannot understand a single word.

Ivar gives him a despondent, sidelong glance, wordlessly teasing him for having to ask for clarifications. Heahmund frowns and lets the storm overtake his already very darkened gaze. Ivar has asked him to translate certain words, and even full sentences, to Old Norse; one would expect Ivar to extend the same courtesy to him whenever needed. Heahmund keeps silent, doubling down on his question with only a prideful stare – a sin, however minor, that he will have to repent for later on.

The full effect of such a stare is somewhat lost by Ivar being either immune to fear since birth, or too good an actor to show it on his face, on his posture. The exposed parts of Heahmund’s arms break up in goosebumps when he meets Ivar’s gaze. The boy has stopped walking so that he may simply look at Heahmund as he pleases. His lips are half-parted, just like he does when thinking of an especially biting retort. Heahmund refuses to admit how, why, or even when he picked up on that habit; he also refuses to lose the haughty gaze. Suddenly, he realises that, if Ivar rose to his full height, he’d be taller than Heahmund himself.

The thought alone irks him more than getting captured ever does. The fire within his lower belly spreads down towards his hipbones, threatens with scorching him whole.

“He called me Prince.” The curve of Ivar’s mouth is caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk. Heahmund wishes he could wipe it clean, much as it would mean his untimely death – God help him survive this ordeal… “Why did you fight, Bishop?”

Heahmund forces his sore thighs to follow Ivar when he keeps walking towards the outskirts of the forward-camp. All the battles of the previous days, and the exertion of having to kneel down to sleep, have finally caught up to him. Heahmund secretly bites at the inside of his cheek to send the rising bile back down his throat.

For some ungodly reason, Ivar has taken to chaining him up at night in a small room in the building he’s living in; the chain is so short that it doesn’t allow Heahmund to lay down fully to sleep. The first few nights of such an ordeal, Heahmund wasn’t able to keep old childhood memories from rising up, much like the bile he’s still battling with. His stomach churns, the unpleasant sensation reminding him of how little sleep he’s been getting, of how pained his muscles are at all times.

Perhaps the only good thing that comes out of his chained-up state is the blessed solitude; Ivar keeps himself ever-close to him during their waking hours for reasons still unknown. His constant presence is distracting – Heahmund longs to kill him more than he can confess even to God.

It takes a lot of conscious effort to keep a pained growl away from his voice.

“He challenged me.”

“Oh, so it was a _Holmgang_?”

Heahmund gives Ivar a sideways glare. The boy chuckles, apparently amused that a Christian Bishop who can speak Old Norse still doesn’t know any Norse custom. Rather than explaining, though, he simply waits for Heahmund to admit he doesn’t know what the word means. A blessing, an opportunity to tease him mercilessly, that Heahmund will never grant him.

“He was not happy with my presence here. I responded, and he challenged me.”

“So it _was_ a _Holmgang_.” Ivar sounds different somehow; less cruel, much more interested. Heahmund cannot contain his own curiosity in time. Those big, blue eyes look even more beautiful up close – God help his sinful mind and deliver him from lustful thoughts…

Heahmund closes his hands until his short nails dig deep enough into his palms to leave marks. This is absolutely _not_ the moment to let his basest instincts overtake him, not while Ivar can see. The boy general’s mind is as keen as Heahmund’s own; he’d use the Bishop’s momentarily weakness to mercilessly prickle him, to turn his lust into sheer bloodlust. Once more, the thought of being surrounded by too many Heathens to make it out alive to keep on doing God’s work crosses his mind.

“You won, then. Congratulations!”

“Thank you.” Heahmund infuses his words with all the sarcasm he can muster. At the same time, he looks away from Ivar, so that he cannot catch wind of his needs. Some small children chase after the fluffiest hens Heahmund has seen since he left his church; their clothes are Norse, but their cries are Saxon. A pair of shield-maidens laugh and aid the kids; Heahmund easily reads them as a well-established couple who most likely took in the children of those they killed in their last raid. A touching gesture, perhaps; but also an empty one coming from such godless murderers.

Heahmund’s mood sours even more. His battle-instincts scream once more with all the intensity they only reach while in the middle of a holy war. He turns his gaze to his left. Ivar’s eyes stay on the dirt-road ahead, his crutch slipping in between small rocks from time to time. It’s a rhythmic sound; one that his lust immediately links to that of a bed’s headboard hitting the wall due to his own vigour atop a willing, warm body.

“Where are we going, Heathen?”

Ivar doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even look at him. It all unnerves Heahmund to no end, but he refuses to let it show on his face. Battle-instincts burn his veins, setting his blood aflame. That little taste of a fight, those red rivers he carved into his opponent, are not enough anymore, much as their memory keeps him warm.

“I need to chain you again. If I don’t, you will kill all my men.”

Heahmund glowers at Ivar with fire-hot rage. He should’ve brought more Heathen blood forth when he had the chance…

“Or maybe you want to fight more?”

“Why do you ask a question when you know the answer?”

“You do.” Ivar acts as though Heahmund’s growled words amount to naught but a confession as he accuses him, that damned smirk still in his face. suddenly, he turns his head to meet the Bishop’s dark gaze; the motion is so violent that his own braids whip his shoulders. “I care about what you do now, Bishop. You’re mine.”

Heahmund’s skin crawls at both the boasting words and their secret implications. Somehow, it is better to be treated as a slave than to have his supposed master state his claim so plainly. Heahmund doesn’t even try to keep the growl out of his voice when he answers, unable to hide his repulse any longer.

“I am God’s servant and thus I am solely His.”

“No, you’re not. You serve me. You fight for me now.”

“So give me my holy sword.”

Ivar chuckles that little laugh of him that always reminds Heahmund of a giddy child’s giggling. The tip of his fangs show in between his well-formed lips. Heahmund forces his lust to pay them no mind; instead, he focuses on the fact that Ivar seems to be having the time of his life just by having a prisoner to play with. Heahmund’s stomach turns again at the implications that serving another man could hide.

“Not yet. With your sword, you would not kill for me. You would kill _me_!”

“Thus said the Lord: Heathens must die.”

“Even the _thrall_ you fucked last night? She is Saxon, but she prayed to Freyr this morning. It was something about a child…”

Heahmund falls out of step for a split second. Ivar notices it and his smirks widens. It seems that walls have eyes and ears here, in the Great Heathen Army’s forward-camp… either that, or the poor girl was pressured into speaking about it after the fact. Both options are equally plausible. Both bring the same ill omens to Heahmund’s chances at freedom. More worrying is the fact that Ivar kept her prayer’s description too vague to know if this means Heahmund will sire another bastard child he has no desire to know about, or if she simply prayed to not be with child.

“She says you’re welcome in her again.” A nonchalant gesture of Ivar’s hand, the other still holding the crutch parallel to his body. “And that she’d never had it so rough.”

Heahmund doesn’t respond; there still isn’t anything to say about it when these last two sentences from Ivar come as no surprise. Her reactions had been enough to know she enjoyed herself immensely, even though Heahmund only chased his own pleasure, quick and dirty and to the point. He can still hear how the chain holding him by the neck sounded as it hit the wooden pole it was affixed to, its brutal rhythm as steady as the one of Heahmund’s hips.

Ivar’s smirk vanishes when he doesn’t answer. Heahmund arches one eyebrow at him, silently questioning him. More than a challenge issued, it is a poor attempt at getting Ivar to show his hand early on their match. And, as per usual, the boy simply holds all his cards closer to his chest.

“I don’t care the _thralls_ you fuck, Bishop. You’ll be in chains in my house still.”

Heahmund decides to overlook the errors in Ivar’s words in favour of quickly doing the sign of the cross. It doesn’t dispel the fires still raging deep inside, but it gives him something to do other than strangling Ivar to death. The boy follows the motions with the same intense gaze with which he’d observed Heahmund fight on horse, back when they’d first met. Heahmund knows enough about lust, about hunger itself, to recognise it in others – oh, God deliver him from temptation…

“You will not fight more today.” Ivar’s voice is merely a whisper, though it still carries all the weight that comes with knowing oneself royalty from birth. Heahmund’s gaze turns harder, if such a thing was even possible; Ivar merely giggles once more. “You are a prisoner here, Bishop. Prisoners cannot have weapons.”

Heahmund does not rise to the challenge verbally, since his stare suffices to carry his meaning. Inadvertently, moved purely by instinct, he straightens his back until he can feel how tension accumulates in his shoulders. The posture is forced enough to give his screaming mind something to focus on – something that isn’t the unstoppable urge to kill this boy with his bare hands.

“I cannot trust you, Bishop.” Ivar sounds nigh remorseful, his tone verging on sad, as he walks to a low stonewall delimiting a field of barley. There are no farmers working on it at this time of day; a small blessing that means their conversation can remain private, Ivar perches on it and leans his crutch by his side. His long legs extend in front of him, the braces probably not letting his knees bend properly. “Why would I give a weapon to a dangerous man like you? You would kill me cold-blooded.”

“You deserve an unholy death.” There’s a hint of a growl in Heahmund’s voice, one that has Ivar’s mouth opening slightly. Cobalt blue flashes in his eyes. “You’re naught but a dirty Heathen. Killing you would be a mercy, a blessing upon this world.”

“ _Midgard_ can go on without me.” Ivar shrugs nonchalantly. Still, Heahmund can see pagan fervour within his eyes. It’s always those eyes… “I will just go to _Valhalla,_ and ride again one day.”

“There is no such place. There is no life after death for Heathens.”

“You’re wrong. There is no life after death for Christians.”

Heahmund’s hands close into fists. Oh, how he longs to have a sword gripped as tightly as his own strength allows… It would be so easy to kill a man who can only move half his body as freely as Heahmund can move all of his. Ivar is invincible while on his war-chariot, looks the part of the brilliant General he truly is; but here and now he is just a boy. Heahmund could put an end to his tyranny over fair England – God be willing, he prays as he quickly darts towards Ivar, reaching for the dagger in his belt.

The boy gasps in surprise, then growls. Heahmund’s fingertips brush against the dagger’s handle. Ivar uses all his strength to push him to one side. Heahmund’s right side impacts against the stonewall, sending the crutch to the ground. He accuses the impact but rolls with it to land behind Ivar. Heahmund scrambles, because he knows he’s in a blind spot where Ivar cannot see him, and encircles the boy’s neck with both his arms. It’s a risky move when Ivar’s whole upper body is much stronger than his own; and yet also a risk worth taking. God will be satisfied if he can send this Heathen General into the depths of Hell. Without Ivar at the helm, the Great Heathen Army will run around like a headless chicken before ultimately disappearing forevermore.

Cold metal against his groin, angled downwards. His trousers will not protect the vein running along his groin from being penetrated. Heahmund does not lighten his grip around Ivar’s neck. The dagger’s tip presses almost hard enough to cut cloth in its path towards Heahmund’s body.

A heartbeat later, neither has moved. Heahmund trembles from the blunt force of his battle-instincts. They burn him from the inside out, demanding he spills blood. He can see Ivar’s gaze is fixed on some indeterminate spot directly ahead of him, though his head is slightly tipped back to try and keep Heahmund from strangling him. Heahmund feels how some muscle in his own forearms twitches. Ivar’s pulse quickens quite a bit at the shifting touch; he presses the dagger hard enough to cut cloth.

“You will die, Bishop.”

God Almighty, the boy sounds breathless and elated at the same time. He wavers between notes like he did the first time he tried to speak in English to Heahmund, happy in that twisted way that only those born to wage war know intimately. Something about being trapped like this is making him giddy; and if there is one thing Heahmund has learnt since he was captured, is that a giddy Ivar is also a very dangerous Ivar. There is no doubt in his mind that this boy _will_ kill him cold-blooded if he does so much as insinuate that he might tighten his arms more.

“You will fall with me, _Heathen_.”

Ivar’s head rolls further back, until his hair caresses Heahmund’s cleavage, until Ivar groans from how his scalp protest. All his braids are trapped in between his own back and the Bishop’s torso. Heahmund does not relent, although he does bend his head so he can speak directly into the boy general’s ear. It’s an intimidation tactic that always works – because God is on his side, because he is a dangerous man, because he’s growling every word, because he knows he has to be quick, lest some other Heathen detects them.

“Stab me once, I will break your neck; and tell me, Ivar, how many more of your precious men do you think I will take down before I fall?”

“Do you want your death so much?”

Heahmund takes a moment to answer, for words are difficult to form when every fibre of his body is focused on the imminent kill. His breath makes the boy’s neck break out in goosebumps; they’re so close that Heahmund can see how those beautiful eyes of his have fallen half-closed. There’s a small scar on Ivar’s right cheek that Heahmund had not noticed before; it cuts diagonally across his cheekbone before lifting off his rosy skin. Heahmund has given and received enough scars of his own to know this one has had been inflicted by a blade, though not a very sharp one. Whoever managed to come so close to this dangerous Heathen is surely long dead by now; Ivar doesn’t do anything by halves.

“Release me, Bishop.” Ivar’s voice is merely a whisper infused with all the things he cannot say out loud, “Release me and maybe I will have something for you later today.”

“I desire nothing from a godless Heathen.”

“What about your freedom?”

“You would never grant me that.”

“Maybe. If you fight for me.”

Heahmund gets as close to Ivar as he can without risking the dagger burying itself deep into his flesh. Its uttermost tip rests directly against his skin, enough to feel but not to cut, and it’s already been warmed up by Heahmund’s heat. When he speaks, he makes sure to control his voice until it’s only a whisper, the growl long gone; yet the intensity and dark intentions still remain.

“ _Never_.”

Ivar’s whole body ebbs like the high tides he rode until he reached England’s coast when Heahmund releases him. The Bishop moves to sit on the stonewall at Ivar’s left; he knows the boy is right-handed, and that his off-hand is unarmed. There are less chances of a lethal attack coming from Ivar’s left; especially for as long as he keeps that dagger clutched in his right. Ivar’s head remains turned towards the clear skies overhead; a rare occurrence in England. Heahmund would take it as a positive sign from God, but his mind is flooded by images of Heathens worshipping the storm while chanting prayers to Thor. Christians should never worship God in the same barbaric ways that Heathens worship their false gods; and Bishop Heahmund is far above such godless acts. His holy words, and his prayers, and all the reverential kisses he gives to both cross and sword, suffice.

“You’re like us.”

Ivar sounds so blissed out that Heahmund’s skin crawls. Refusing to look at Ivar’s profile, he simply bends forward until his elbows rest on his parted knees, the wooden cross finally falling out of his shirt’s cleavage. Heahmund doesn’t remember wearing it so opened; although it’s true that its rough thread has a tendency to come loose every time he fights. He silently observes how the cross dangles from its rope and tries to gather his thoughts. Heahmund knows he stands no chance at trying to placate the wildfire within; the mad urge to fight may have mostly passed by now, in no small part thanks to this goading Heathen looking directly at his profile, but it has not disappeared. God forgive him, for he has sinned – _again_ …

“I am not.”

“Yes you are!” Ivar immediately retorts, cheerful like Heahmund didn’t take more than a full minute to think such an eloquent answer. “You’re a true _Drengr_ dressed as a false Christian. One day, you will see it too.”

Heahmund is much too tired of the boy general’s tricks already than to offer him an answer. His mind wonders what that Old Norse word means; it’s not one that he’s ever heard thrown around the forward-camp before. Whatever it is, though, it cannot be good; not when this boy is using it in such a positive light. Heahmund straightens his back, ensures that he’s got Ivar’s full attention before he does the sign of the cross, completing it with kissing the centre of his wooden cross.

God help him, for he cannot keep the smirk out of his face upon seeing the storms brewing in Ivar’s beautiful eyes at the blatant Christianity present in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vikingr means Warrior.
> 
> Gnógr means “Enough”.
> 
> Mínn vísi means “My Prince”.
> 
> Holmgang is, basically, a Viking version of a duel; the offended party challenges the offender. They don’t necessarily fight to the death, though.
> 
> Thrall means “slave”. For the record, this fic will NOT have any abuse towards them; all the trigger warnings for the whole fic are in the tags already.
> 
> Midgard literally means “middle earth”. It’s one of the Nine Realms: the one where humans live.
> 
> Drengr is THE highest compliment for a Viking warrior; a Drengr has reckless courage and follows a code of fair play.


	2. The Animal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: references to past wounds/beatings that have left physical (and psychological) scars, sexual content, choking (as a kink), biting hard enough to draw blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is [a song by Disturbed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgZC-I6IAKo), because that’s apparently the trend here, but the lyrics don’t have anything to do with this fic.
> 
> In this chapter, we have introspection, and sex while Heahmund is in chains, because I swear he spends three-quarters of his time onscreen tied up and/or down – and Gods, does he look incredibly attractive!

The chain is pulled taut before Heahmund thought it would be. He groans at the cold metal ring around his neck, cursing that the chain connects to its back rather than to his front. If he had the lock placed at the hollow of his throat, he could try to lockpick it with whatever scraps of metal he may be able to find lying around the forward-camp; they shouldn’t be too difficult to find, given that the Great Heathen Army has two blacksmiths working nonstop during the daylight hours, possibly more that he hasn’t yet seen.

At least his wrists aren’t bound, nor his ankles, he tells himself as he crawls back towards the wooden pole the chain is affixed to; at least he’s tall enough to be allowed to kneel. A smaller person would be condemned to stand on their feet, most likely foregoing sleep altogether, or to try and climb the smooth, wooden pole. Heahmund sees no point in trying that escalade, though; the reward of sitting atop it simply isn’t worth anything when he wouldn’t be able to carve the chain free.

There’s even less incentive now that night has fallen. This small room which has become his prison has no windows; it is too dark to even see any indentations in the wood that would help him climb seamlessly. Besides, Heahmund would most likely need to go around the pole, finding his footing wherever he could; and the chain would curl around the wood, pull taut before he reached the top. Such an event would interrupt his climbing mid-step, and make it quite difficult to come back down. Things would turn even direr if any Dane caught him mid-act, too; it all seems like too many risks with little to no reward.

Thus, all Heahmund can do is to kneel by the pole’s base. His thighs protest; they have spent today aching from the effort of keeping him upright during last night’s fleeting sleep, and they’re not keen on repeating the experience tonight. Heahmund can still recall how his body screamed in flame and pain alike when that blonde beast of a _Vikingr_ rose to the challenge, and how it only screamed louder when he had Ivar grappled so tightly. The lust, be it for battle or for sex, has abated by now; however, Heahmund knows they have not disappeared completely. A groan escapes his half-opened lips as he tries to not dwell too much on his instincts. Getting worked up would do him no good while he cannot relieve himself with anything but prayer.

Surprisingly, Latin is far easier to remember than English. The foreign, yet equally holy, words resound within his mind with crystal clarity. They were taught to him almost since his birth, he suspects; alas, it is not a topic he likes to think about. The important fact is that he knows them by heart, not how or when, or even why, they were taught to him.

His hands rest upon his own thighs. Heahmund takes a deep breath, steadies his mind much like how he invokes God’s favourable ways before a Holy War is had.

“ _Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificatur_ …” His thighs scream; an unbearable pain shoots up both his legs, “… God’s – _bones_!”

The room is too small to have any real echo, so unlike the high-ceiled cathedrals he’s given Mass in, but these bare walls still tremble against his deadly growl. Heahmund immediately offers a trail of sincere apologies to God for having cursed in such a way; it is not worthy of a man of his stature. A Holy Bishop should never take the Lord’s name in vain–

“ _No, no, no, nononono_ …!”

Heahmund cannot stop himself from scrambling for air. Gasping, the sheer force of the phantom pain brings his left hand to his lower back. Nimble fingers quickly slide in between naked skin and his dirty undershirt.

There is no blood.

There are no welts.

Logic and reason both point out that his skin isn’t even reddened, since no blow has landed here since he was twelve-and-a-half years old.

And yet, the ghostly pain that comes with memory remains.

All his muscles tighten to what otherwise is an impossible degree. His thighs give out, his arms fall limp on either side of him, his head wants to roll forward – but the metal ring and the chain around his neck hold him in place. Heahmund cannot do anything but let himself sway slightly back and forth, moved more by the unforgiving metal than by the desire to soothe himself.

Twenty lashes of the hard wooden cane for taking the Lord’s name in vain. Twenty more for not being able to keep his back straightened throughout his earned punishment. No dinner for daring to ask why. The next morning, exhausting physical training with the heaviest great sword.

Nausea overtakes him, just like it overtook him that morning. Fire that is too hot and ice that is too cold run amok through his body, up and down his spine. The fire overtakes his muscles; the ice, his bones, settling deep within his very marrow. Heahmund gasps wildly, trying to tame his breathing back into what resembles its usual, more relaxed pattern. He does not succeed; not even after long moments in which all he can hear are childhood ghosts mixing with his gasps for air, all punctuated by his heartbeat’s thunder.

Left half-dead from lack of proper rest, these whispers for which he has no name, even after all these years, feel like an unearned death. Or perhaps he did earn it and merely doesn’t know it. It’s impossible to concentrate on anything which isn’t his own body, his reactions, the whispers in the dark.

Heahmund has lived for far too long with these Demons to know that, in times like these, when lighter techniques do not work, there is only one thing that does. He has to physically move his legs backwards, so that the chain is not the only thing holding him in place anymore. In a twisted sort of sensation, his mind flashes him an image of the boy general, whom Heahmund has seen manoeuvring his own lower body to change how he was seated at the table, so that he could face one of his brothers while speaking to him.

His thighs scream just as much as they have until now when his body’s full weight rests on them again. Heahmund allows himself to groan, although he’s so breathless still that the sound comes out much closer to another soft gasp. His throat feels raspy; he hasn’t drunk anything since dinner, and that must’ve been at least four or five hours ago already. Time flies when chained up…

Heahmund swallows dryly; there’s a lump in his throat that was not there before these Demons started their whispered onslaught. His legs are too numb to feel how he rests his fists on either thigh, so he shifts in place until he’s sitting on his calves. It helps reduce the simmering pain in his thighs, although only marginally so.

His posture corrected, Heahmund turns his attention inwards, to his own mind. The Demons swirl around him, unseen amidst the reigning darkness and just as deadly as Heahmund himself has been trained to be. There is only one way left to combat them; the only one he’s learnt works even when everything else has failed; he would use it much more often if it didn’t also come with such a heavy price for his immortal, sinful soul.

The familiar weight of his bastard sword, right hand curled tight around the gold-threaded handle, left hand supporting it to quickly change his grip if needed. A defensive stance, one of the very first he ever learnt. One that he still adopts in almost every battle to this day. One that would’ve helped him greatly earlier today, when that burly _Vikingr_ dared wage a war against him. The burn of the pain caused by these Demons remains, but his beloved sword’s presence far outweighs it.

His right hand slides backwards in a poor imitation of how he caresses the long handle of his sword after cleaning it, or after taking a whetstone to its very durable blade. His thumb caresses the air right over where the precious stone embedded into the pummel should lay. The charged air of this room cannot compete against the smooth coolness of the stone, though; nor against all the golden, raised edges enveloping its deep blue shine.

His left hand turns until his palm is up, supporting the sword from the blade itself, as steadfast like only his belief in God Almighty could ever be. A risky habit, he knows; his sword’s double-edge is more than sharp enough to cut his fingers clean off if he’s not careful. As much of a powerful claim as he has over this precious, ornate sword, it is still a weapon, and a weapon it will always be. Impersonal, cold, deadly. Despite his reverent ritual around it, he could very well visualize any other sword if he fought with it day in and day out. He simply loves this bastard sword like he never thought he could adore a mere instrument of death; and his care reflects itself in the peaceful solitude of his reverie.

Heahmund’s eyes have fallen closed, because abstracting himself from all earthly surroundings helps the ritual. His eyelids flutter for merely a second, correcting the image within his mind’s eye. He has never been the most imaginative of men, but his ability to conjure this ritual up outdoes itself every time – every desperate time – that he’s forced to resort to it.

And then, he is no longer bound by any metal rings, nor by any chains. He’s simply kneeling amidst complete darkness. Clothe and leather are indistinguishable from metal and skin. The wooden cross around his neck turns golden, shines to guide Angels to find him in this his time of need. His sword becomes an extension of himself. He holds it as if offering it to a force unknown.

His right hand closes around the pommel, clutches it for a fleeting moment; then it travels upwards, back to the handle. The golden thread wrapped in a helix around it doesn’t shine as much as it used to, but it makes for an easier grip now that it is well-worn. He slowly appraises it, feeling parts of the coarse handle under and in between the softer thread. One palm alone cannot cover its whole expanse; this sword was forged to allow a two-handed grip when necessary. Just like he likes best. It is as much of a weapon as the man commanding it to strike.

He reaches the raised edge of the horizontal hilt and slowly climbs it, letting his entire posture shift enough to present the etching to the skies above. His fingertips softly place themselves on the symbol at the rightmost edge; a vertical pole crossed by a convex curve in what can only be described as a relaxed cross. A reverential caress slowly follows the word engraved on the hilt, starting on the cross-like symbol and going all the way to the leftmost edge. Then he goes back to the beginning of the word, his fingers finding the correct place by muscle memory alone, to trace each letter with the same reverent caress.

_Ananyzapata_. Cursed be the Devil by the baptism of John.

He repeats the incantation aloud, his voice coming out in a steady whisper, never enough to disturb neither the reigning peace of the darkness surrounding him, or whatever earthy place his body has been confined to. As he does so, his right hand climbs over the hilt, finally reaching the start of the alloyed metal. There are perhaps two fingers worth of width with no edge, right before the ribbed blade takes over. He rests his right hand in this safe stretch of metal while he finishes the last iteration of the Christian incantation.

A heavy intake of air seals the deal, completing the ritual. The phantom pain has gone away by now, replaced by a meditative state in which he is aware of every last fibre of his body; although not to the point of reaching the extreme awareness that he associates with being on edge. His bastard sword’s edge is as balanced as always. And now he, too, feels the same. Fiery instincts have not disappeared, however subsided they might be now, but they are much more manageable. Heahmund feels once again ready to face them, ready to withstand them without succumbing to temptation.

Ghosts of past pains still swirl in tight circles around him, whispering dark secrets, threatening with breaking the peaceful trance he has so carefully constructed for himself. Heahmund braces himself against their words of hatred, changes his grip on his sword until he’s holding it two-handed, ready to battle these Demons from Hell if he must. But this calm state of being allows for no such rage; only for introspection and the soothing darkness he has learnt to respect. Thus, he needs to change, he quietly concludes within the relative privacy of his own mind – for God is All-Seeing, and he will forever be laid bare before Him.

Invoking the wild fury coiled tight within him, forcing his battle-instincts to stand at the ready, soon proves to be more difficult. He has done this same ritual on innumerable occasions before, for he was a stray lamb before he was moulded into a fierce lion who fights for God and God alone. He can fight now; he can defend himself with Word and Sword. He is not the helpless altar boy whom more brilliant minds despaired to teach.

Heahmund’s own deep voice overlaps with the voices of others as he repeats his purpose: he has been put in this Earth to do one thing, and one thing only – to fight against the Heathen invasion of England, and drag as many of their filthy warriors down to Hell as he possibly can.

A sudden vision of impossible blue crosses his mind’s eye, accompanied by the most sardonic smirk he’s ever witnessed in any man’s face. The combination is intriguing, attractive like no other person has ever intrigued nor attracted him. Sarcastic and cruel in almost all earthly aspects of life; and yet vulnerable and innocent at the most unthinkable of times. Heahmund almost succumbs under its temptation – oh God who art in Heaven, please deliver him from such a handsome Devil in tangible, kissable, human skin…

The heavy, wooden door creaks.

Heahmund’s head turns to the left, his gaze immediately pulled to the door. He feels anticipation coiled tight in his lower belly; he’s already expecting a fight that seems imminent for as long as he is surrounded by Heathens. He forces himself to revert to the kneeling position he’s already learnt to hate, because it lets him dart to either side quicker than he can do while sitting on his own legs.

The door opens slowly, much more so than he thinks is safe; if someone is trying to sneak into his prison, they should do it quickly enough to not get caught by whatever guards might be patrolling the empty corridors.

A small _thrall_ enters the room and closes the door behind them. Heahmund stares as they come closer. His eyes have somehow gotten even more used to the darkness while they’d been closed; he can recognise the softer factions of Saxon youth, and the delectable silhouette of a warm body under a thin tunic. It reaches only to their mid-thigh, letting Heahmund’s gaze appraise their legs. The _thrall_ goes directly to his side of the room and kneels in front of him. They seem reluctant to speak up, yet wanting to do so at the same time. Heahmund lets his factions relax, his gaze going from the darkest of glares to the same benevolent expression he used to wear while speaking with all the sheep who came to his church for Mass, for Confession – for Bishop Heahmund himself.

“What are you doing here?” Heahmund asks, intentionally keeping his volume barely above a whisper. The _thrall_ almost jumps out of their own skin at his words; then, their gaze centres on Heahmund’s mouth. Their own lips part slightly at the sight of him. Oh, God forgive him the sins his thoughts commit on their own accord…

“Prince Ivar sent me here.” Soft-spoken as their English words are, Heahmund still has no idea about their gender. It makes absolutely no difference to him. Besides, whatever they have between their legs will make for the most pleasant of surprises once he gets his hands on them. “He said I should… _ah_ … entertain you… tonight.”

Heahmund raises his head and straightens his back. A heavy sigh escapes him at the same time. Ivar. Of course. Of course the boy general would interfere and mess with him, making indirect fun of his Christian ascetism by sending a willing and warm body to service him. Heahmund cannot ever be sure of how much Ivar has been able to gleam about Heahmund’s appetites, whether they be in bed or in battle, but this _thrall_ is proof that Ivar has at least an inkling about it. Either that or he’s being the irreverent Heathen that he is.

“Are you willing?” He forces himself to ask. He’s travelled this Earth before; he knows the kind of nasty rumours that circulate about Heathens, and harbours a desire to prove himself better than them in every possible regard, in every aspect of life. Heahmund wonders if God would see it as a sin or as proof of how fervent Heahmund is as His holy servant. Such speculation seems blasphemous, though – thus, he abandons it with naught but a private prayer full of repentance.

“Y-yes…” The _thrall’s_ gaze travels down the length of his torso, stopping for a second at the wooden cross around his neck. Then, it travels further down. Heahmund’s smirk is a sinister curve belying the intentions behind his gaze. “Y-you’re very attractive, Father…”

Heahmund’s skin prickles; he couldn’t say if it’s from the coaxing he already feels he’ll have to do, or from the title this Saxon _thrall_ chose to use. Strangely enough, he has dealt with partners who did those things before. Most people settle for either, though; they play coy or indulge in what has to be the most twisted fantasy Heahmund’s ever allowed himself to partake in. Still, he knows he’s experienced. He should be able to handle their joint efforts now, he reasons. His basest instincts burn his veins from the inside out.

“Come here, little lamb.” There’s a grain in his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago, “Let us begin.”

The _thrall_ doesn’t hesitate before moving closer to him, disrobing fully as they go along. Heahmund hums his appreciation, raises a hand to hold the back of their neck. This little one refuses to look him in the eye anymore, but Heahmund does not mind. Instinct burns him to the core; is this a honeyed trap that Ivar laid for him, or a genuine gesture to signal his approval of Heahmund’s lust…?

Either way, this _is_ quite a nice present to receive, much as he wishes the damned chain were fully off his neck. The _thrall_ is shorter, smaller; it’d be a delight to press them against the wall, to feel how their legs wrap around his waist.

Alas, Heahmund growls, he cannot do any of that. He can’t even lay down enough to pin them down to the ground. Luckily, and as condemned to Hell as it marks him as, he has enough experience under his belt to know he still can fully mount them by making them kneel on all fours between his thighs. An impersonal posture, he’s found; one that allows for mental abstraction while the body takes what it wills. He can recall more than one lonely widow who received this treatment from him; and none had any complains whatsoever after the fact. Similarly, this _thrall_ shall have none either.

Heahmund’s grip is bruising as he almost forcefully manoeuvres them into place. They moan a sweet sound that goes directly to his groin, allowing him to do as he wills. For a split second, Heahmund’s sanity worries he may take something they aren’t willing to give; but then his hand finds the delectable places between their legs, and all his worries dissipate into thin air. He cannot tell if they readied themselves before meeting him in his prison, just in case this Saxon Bishop turned out to be as beastly as their Heathen masters, or if he’s simply become this good at arousing his partners. Things will work out just fine either way. Heahmund decides to let instinct overtake him in an attempt to calm the fire down by sinning with his whole being, just so he can later repent with his whole being.

The _thrall_ makes another sweet little sound as Heahmund holds their hips to his own. They seem eager, although nervous. This is undoubtedly their first time being taken in this fashion, Heahmund knows from experience; he’s met this kind of erotic reluctance before. It always melts away once he truly gets going, though; and so, he abandons his conscious mind to start.

They scream when Heahmund bites into their left shoulder almost hard enough to draw blood; at the same time, he takes himself in hand to position himself accurately. The _thrall_ begs incoherently, their English already too broken to be intelligible. He pays them no mind beyond a small pause once his head catches on their rim, waiting for the physical signs of consent before taking things further.

They do not take too long to answer, nodding their head and angling their hips further backwards, until their back arches. Heahmund hums as he slides a hand to their front, grabbing them by the front of their neck in a tight grip that cuts their airflow for a moment. Heahmund is quick to release them, though; a dead body would do him no good, and this _thrall_ is a Saxon. They are part of the flock he was tasked with protecting, and that fact does not change even when his hunger grows.

Heahmund thrusts into them at a brutal pace, burying himself fully within their heat in a single motion. The _thrall’s_ scream resounds off the stonewalls. Heahmund holds them by the hips, makes sure they stay pressed tightly to his own. He has to hide a growl in their shoulder, though he bites them again to mask his emotions. There exists a very real chance of Heathens irrupting into his prison, which would either force him to finish in front of an audience or to let the situation morph into _coitus interruptus_. He’s not sure which would be worse for his body – and yet he’s too aware of which would damn him more in the eyes of God.

The _thrall_ doesn’t fight him, doesn’t protest nor resist as Heahmund bites their neck and shoulders until they bloom bloody red. Their compliance is probably a result of whatever threatening event Ivar told them would happen if they did not fully satisfy the Bishop in his prison. Heahmund does not like this utter submission; any sexual encounter can be improved by many a mile by having his partner resist him at first. He always wins the struggle, of course; he knows exactly what a stern stare and a well-timed thrust can accomplish. It just would be a lot of fun to have a partner who gives as good as they take.

He cannot shake the thought that any Heathen would undoubtedly fight him much more than this Saxon. Any Heathen would bite, punch, scratch, and try to protect their body from being saved by Christian hands and a Christian cock.

Heahmund’s hips buck forward on their own accord, almost dislodging the _thrall_ lying half underneath him.

He unceremoniously scoops them both backwards, so that the chain doesn’t have any chances of getting in the way and interrupting his rhythm more than it already has. A new bite and a vicious thrust have the _thrall_ dissolving into screams and moans, their warm body simply letting Heahmund have complete control. He relishes the opportunity because it lets him placate the lust burning deep within; however, he still wishes they’d struggle to at least explode on their own terms and not by his ravenous cock.

Heahmund maintains the same bruising pace he established right from the start, paying no mind to all their screaming and trembling. It’s a relentless pursue of his own pleasure, his body too needy to even think about teasing. He has no way of knowing how much time he has with this _thrall_ ; he wouldn’t put it past Ivar to send someone to spy on them a certain amount of time after they entered the prison, just to see if his present was well-received.

He will not last for long. His abdomen tightens from pleasure, his thighs scream from pain. The wildfire consumes his mind, blinds his eyes more than the darkness around them does. Heahmund bites into the back of the _thrall’s_ neck and delights in their scream when blood is drawn. A violent urge surges from the deepest parts of him, his every move growing rougher still, more desperate to reach his own peak. His hand returns to the front of the _thrall’s_ neck, gripping perhaps tighter than before. They allow it without a sound. He has a feeling they already reached their own. Perhaps they have had more than a single orgasm by now – he honest to God doesn’t know.

The fire is all-consuming when he spills directly into their heat, all precautions be damned as much as his immortal soul. Wild, animalistic growls leave his throat at every twitch of his cock; and yet he does not move away. Shamefully, he can barely remember to let go of the _thrall’s_ neck after he’s spilt everything he had to offer. They choke on air itself and fall forward until their arse is higher than their head. A pretty posture, too; one that Heahmund wishes he’d had thought of before taking them. His cock stays mostly in them, still twitching and protesting the overstimulation of having those walls tightening around him. The _thrall_ gasps, their face pressed against the floor; their chest heaves and their back arches. Heahmund’s head throbs in time with his cock.

“Surely you can take more than that…” Heahmund’s dark whispers makes them tremble violently, almost as if afraid of having to withstand another round of such brutal sex. The vision makes him chuckle, unhinged like he only is in bed and in battle. “Would you leave me dissatisfied, little lamb?”

“No, Father…”

Heahmund’s cock hardens anew at their mewled consent. A dark smirk overtakes his factions, widening until his fangs show. The exhausted _thrall_ keeps their body to the floor, probably because they cannot rise anymore, and whimpers with each thrust in. His desire returns in full force, driving him to rock his hips forward with the same deep-seated brutality as in the previous round.

God Almighty, who art in Heaven, help him find salvation for his tainted soul…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificatur [nomen tuum]” means “our father, who is in heavens, sanctified be your name” in Latin. It’s the starting part of a prayer called Pater Noster.
> 
> “God’s bones”, “God’s wounds”, and other body parts, were used as curses in medieval England. I’m trying to not write anachronisms!
> 
> For more details about Heahmund’s sword and the word etched in it, [click here](https://vikings.fandom.com/wiki/Heahmund%27s_Sword). Also I probably will go more in depth about the symbolism of him wielding a “bastard” sword and him being a promiscuous Bishop and all that jazz… 
> 
> “Coitus interruptus” is a (BAD) contraception method, in which the penis is taken out before coming to avoid pregnancy. Basically it’s “pulling out”. Please don’t do it in real life though!


	3. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: mentions of murder, a couple mentions of lustful thoughts, one (1) mention of self-harm in religious context (not explicit).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a song by [Disturbed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xO-RsILjIfE), yet again, but the lyrics don’t have anything to do with this fic.
> 
> In this chapter, Ivar and Heahmund discuss handsomeness and have breakfast before playing a round of Hnefatafl (Viking chess); banter ensues ft. the quiet beast!

Come morning, Heahmund quickly finds himself awoken by the heavy, wooden door being opened again. Unsurprisingly, it is the boy general who has come to visit him; Heahmund doesn’t know why Ivar insists on waking him up himself instead of sending anybody else to do it for him, but it suits him just fine. He rubs at his eyes to force himself to shake off the little sleep he’s been able to get while always keeping one eye opened, just in case these godless Heathens dare disturb his precious rest. They never really do so, though; either they fear Heahmund more than they want to admit, or Ivar has taken care of that. Heahmund isn’t even sure which possibility makes more bile rise to fill his mouth.

Irreverent like he always is in Heahmund’s presence, Ivar pays him no attention right off the bat. Instead, he looks to his left, directly to the little _thrall_ who’s curled up in a tight ball against the wall right across Heahmund’s wooden pole, completely out of the ravenous Bishop’s reach. Ivar hums, but the _thrall_ gives no indication of being awake. The boy general seems amused by the sight; his body-language seems to say that he had expected Heahmund to refuse his generous gift. Heahmund’s heartbeat accelerates when he catches partial sight of Ivar’s smile; a wild, dangerous thing that he’d love to see across the battlefield as he prepares to strike the Heathen down.

“You’re a good guest, Bishop.”

“And yet you are not a good host.”

Ivar’s torso turns until he’s looking at Heahmund head-on, his tight, dark braids flailing around his powerful shoulders. The Bishop stands his ground, tries to ignore the violent beating of his instincts in his veins and the low thrum in his blood upon seeing the boy’s full lips purse. Ivar doesn’t say anything for a moment; Heahmund can only guess that his own words have struck a nerve he hadn’t even known was there for him to strike. The boy’s gaze casually falls to Heahmund’s exposed cleavage; his undershirt remains as unlaced as it was the day before, all because Heahmund saw no point in redoing the laces when they would’ve come undone during sex anyway. He didn’t even tend to the loose lace after his rough copulating with the _thrall;_ his body felt too aflame for tight clothes.

Heahmund’s skin prickles at the low heat simmering in Ivar’s scorching stare. A shiver runs quick and involuntary down his spine when the Heathen licks at his own lower lip, slowly, so slowly, as though he wants Heahmund to appreciate how long his tongue seems to be.

“I gave you a present.” Ivar starts in English, but swiftly switches to Old Norse so he can speak faster, “I give you food and water every day. I make sure my Army knows you’re mine and mine alone. They don’t hurt you because I say they can’t hurt you. Do you really want to die so much, Bishop? I thought you like life.”

“A life in prison, is no life.” Heahmund replies, his Old Norse much softer than Ivar’s in spite of the ever-present growl in his voice. Ivar’s eyes flash cobalt, illuminated sideways by the sunlight coming in from the still-opened door. Heahmund would usually take that opening as his best opportunity to escape; alas, the metal ring and chain remain around his neck, and his legs are too asleep and sore to allow him to move anymore.

O, God, help Your faithful servant survive this Heathen ordeal…

“I can let you off the chain today, but you must promise me something.”

Heahmund merely stares at Ivar as he draws near. He still ebbs to one side as he walks aided by his crutch; the motion seems more pronounced today than it did yesterday, or any other day when Heahmund has seen Ivar walk like this. He ponders whether it’s a result of the boy being as exhausted as Heahmund himself always feels these days, or if it is due to something else. His treacherous mind whispers sins to him, pointing out that this boy made of ice also possesses a red-hot passion in any battlefield; and if Heahmund’s own battle-lust carries over to the bedroom, perhaps Ivar’s…?

Heahmund growls to silence the whispers. The boy is already so close to him that he must throw his head backwards to look at Ivar in the eye. Exposing his neck to someone with such an acute bloodlust seems the worst idea Heahmund has had in years; and yet he finds himself doing it anyway, curiosity and coiled excitement getting the best of him against his more logical judgment. Ivar’s right hand disappears within the dark leathers covering his ample chest and comes back out holding a small, half-rusted iron key. The Bishop instinctually lurches forward; the merciless chain holds him back. He growls. Ivar smiles, giggles that giddy laugh of his. Heahmund’s fists tighten until his knuckles go white.

“ _Bráðr!_ ” Ivar laughs, shamelessly amused. It takes Heahmund several seconds to register the Old Norse; somehow, he’d been expecting the goading boy to change tongues again, because switching back-and-forth at a coin’s flip has become the standard. It keeps their verbal contests interesting, fresh; even when they constantly circle back to the same two or three topics.

 _Patience_. His time will come. He is a Warrior; he is a Bishop. He has been trained to withstand wicked Heathen tortures. He has been moulded into the holiest of weapons. He can suffer the boy general’s cruelties for a while longer – for as long as God wishes him to suffer for. His path for His fervent servant is arduous, and so he will work for the chance at being rewarded with a seat in Heaven, at His right.

“Does it hurt?” Ivar asks, in English this time, as he forces his legs to let him kneel by Heahmund’s left side. The braces don’t allow his knees to bend all the way, but Ivar seems so used to wearing them that it doesn’t hinder his movements nor force him to alter his posture. A strategical choice, the Bishop muses when Ivar settles down; the boy knows Heahmund is right-handed and chose his off-hand side deliberately. “Your legs. Do they hurt?”

Heahmund takes a deep breathe, gaze firmly on some indeterminate point of the wall directly ahead of him. He quickly decides that lying would do him no good now, not when Ivar sounds this controlled. The boy appears to not be in a murderous mood today; and, since Heahmund knows exactly what this fearsome General is capable of, he chooses to offer some truthfulness of his own.

“Yes.”

“I think… uh…” Ivar trails off, clicks his tongue; Heahmund’s hair stands on end at how close he sounds. His gaze roams over the sleeping _thrall_ , who hasn’t yet given any indications of even being alive, although Heahmund knows perfectly well that he did not kill them. He was terribly rough, yes; but not to the point of claiming their life. When Ivar speaks up again, he does so in Old Norse, most likely because he doesn’t know the direct translation of the verb in English, “I _thought_ so.”

Heahmund’s voice is merely a raspy whisper as he says Ivar’s sentence in English, freely offering a translation to widen the boy’s ever-growing vocabulary. One of Ivar’s hands is fixed on Heahmund’s shoulder, and his legs threaten with giving out under their combined weights. Normally, Heahmund would be able to deadlift this boy into his arms, since most of his bulk resides in his upper half, and Ivar can very well cling to Heahmund on his own; but now…

God punish yet forgive him for the sin of pride – Heahmund’s ego takes issue with the fact that he’s been kept intentionally meek and sore, so that his body’s whole strength may never present any challenge to Ivar’s own strength.

Ivar stares at his profile with such an intense look that Heahmund can physically feel it on his skin. Had he not satiated his lust last night, his ravenous sexuality would be screaming bloody murder within his veins, because Ivar’s stare is charged with something akin to indecent fascination. Heahmund takes a deep breath in, exhales slowly through his parted lips. The danger of opening his mouth when someone is ogling him so sexually makes his blood boil. Ivar’s free hand reaches the lock at the back of his neck. His fingers suddenly take a detour upwards, running over the dark hair at Heahmund’s nape.

“Why do you wear your hair so short?” Ivar asks suddenly. His voice contains all the confidence it always does when he finally settles on one language. Today’s choice is Old Norse, surely because speaking some of its harsher sounds always gives Heahmund a run for his money. Ivar always looks like he enjoys seeing him struggle. “It’s strange.”

“It is… correct.” Heahmund replies in Old Norse. His choice of words sounds awkward even to his own ears; it’s the closest word he knows to “proper”. If Ivar is miffed by it, he doesn’t show. When Heahmund dares glance at him, his head tilting only slightly towards Ivar, the tip of that devilish tongue is visible between his lips. “Men of God wear it shorter.”

“But why? You would look better with long hair.”

“Are you an expert now?” Heahmund teases; he only resents having had to change languages again. His knowledge of Old Norse could use some polishing, he tells himself with only the slightest shadow of annoyance. Either that, or the English lexicon is richer; and wouldn’t that be grand, to have something tangible to hover over Ivar’s head during their linguistic arguments?

“I am!” Ivar’s fingers brush as many of the shortest hairs at Heahmund’s nape as the metal rings allows him to. Heahmund decides to concentrate on how the boy carries their conversation easily in English; focusing on anything else seems much too risky. “I had short hair too, once. But I like my braids. Do you not?”

“I’ve only seen you in them.” Heahmund replies slowly; he’s never been the most gracious diplomat, and it is hard to think properly with a bloodthirsty Heathen’s hands so close to the pulse-point in his neck. Suddenly, he’s grateful that the metal ring acts as a makeshift protection from Ivar’s bloody tendencies. “I have nothing to compare them to.”

“So you wish to see me? More me?”

“No, Ivar the Boneless, I do _not_ wish to see more _of_ you.”

“Oh.”

Heahmund blinks; the boy sounded more disappointed than haughty as he opened the lock. The metal ring’s pressure lessens, but its inner mechanism doesn’t let it come fully off on its own. Ivar retrieves and keeps the small key first; then, his hands return to Heahmund’s neck. One grabs the lock itself to keep it steady while the other pushes the now-opened part of the ring around the right side of Heahmund’s neck, until he can move out of it himself. Unsurprisingly, his thighs give way immediately.

Heahmund growls when he finds himself kissing the dirty ground, his left hand close to Ivar’s crutch. It would make for a makeshift weapon, akin to a sturdy branch; if only he still had the strength to wield it…

“Come to the main hall.” Ivar’s voice and the crutch moving out of his vision are the only external input Heahmund can focus on. He growls anew when he tries to stand; his thighs refuse to cooperate. “Well… come to the main hall, _when you can_.”

God Almighty, how he longs to assassinate this goading boy where he stands…

Heahmund listens to Ivar as he exits the prison, leaving the door completely open behind him. His pride roars about how wounded it feels when even the _thrall_ moves away before he can; they only give him a fleeting glance as they go, neck and shoulders covered in bloody bitemarks and bruises. Heahmund’s lust stirs fulsome. Still, the numbness in his lower body, in his legs, prevents him from thinking too much about the little _thrall_.

Several moments pass in silence. Heahmund uses them to offer morning prayers to God, apologising for last night’s sin of lust and asking for a chance to self-flagellate in sacred repentance. The numbness slowly recedes and allows him to sit down. Heahmund is halfway through his second _Pater Noster_ when he can kneel; and yet another iteration goes by before he can stand with enough balance to not topple over.

Each step sends needles and pins throughout him; they start at the soles of his feet and crawl all the way up to his hips. It is agony. It is a pain he has never known before. Not even during his harsh training did he ever receive such a wicked punishment – several scars all over his body pulsate in time with his heartbeat at the memories. He pushes them down before he needs to resort to the ritual with his imaginary sword to shut the ghosts up.

When he finally, _finally_ , reaches the main hall, Ivar is seated in front of a wooden table with food on it. There’s a _Hnefatafl_ board to the side, its pieces already in place for a bout. Heahmund wonders if Ivar, ever the brilliant strategist in war, is just as dazzling when it comes to mere strategy games. The boy’s eyes flash when Heahmund stumbles over to the opposite side of the table, where an empty chair is waiting for him. It doesn’t surprise him to realise that sitting down is easier on his thighs than standing up; but the fact that their screaming in pain doesn’t stop makes Heahmund swallow another growl. He trembles from exertion, from pain, praying to God that Ivar won’t see it.

“You made it!” Ivar says in Old Norse, delight plain in that soft voice of his. Some Heathen warriors look over, most likely thinking the boy was speaking to them. When Ivar dismisses them by not taking his eyes off Heahmund, they simply return to their own breakfasts and muttered conversations. Perhaps to keep the rest of their conversation more private, Ivar switches to English to add, “Congratulations, Your Grace.”

“You know nothing of grace.” Heahmund’s voice is a raspy whisper betraying his state of being. His eyes struggle to remain open; lack of sleep is quickly catching up with him – O God, what an inappropriate time for his Heathen woe to arrive…

“Then teach me.”

Heahmund doesn’t give Ivar the satisfaction of receiving an immediate answer; he simply glowers to show his discomfort at the whole situation. Ivar’s smile disappears slowly, until all that remains in his factions is well-guarded curiosity.

“Eat.” Heahmund would lean back on his seat as another little act of defiance, but this simple stool has no backrest. Annoyed at it yet trying to hide it, he simply straightens his back until he appears slightly taller than Ivar, who is leaning forward, both elbows on the table. The motion doesn’t make his thighs protest; Heahmund notes he can still move from the hips up without pain. “I promise: no poison. You’re too… _dýrr_ … to let you die.”

Heahmund acts as though he’s understood the only Old Norse word in Ivar’s last sentence; still, his skin prickles when a Heathen who was walking close gives her General an odd look and a frown. She seems taken aback by the choice of word. Heahmund’s gaze follows her as she simply shakes her head like she wishes to erase the memory of Ivar’s sentence; she exits the main hall quickly afterwards.

Heahmund turns his gaze to the table when she does, already knowing he won’t extract more information off her body-language. There’s an assortment of fruits and a jar of milk resting in between his side of the table and Ivar’s, and both have a cup closer to their respective chairs. Ivar’s is full; Heahmund’s, empty. The Bishop can admit he’s still reluctant to taste anything, in spite of what the boy said about it not being poisoned.

Alas, his stomach growls.

Heahmund leans a hand across his belly as if that’ll make it shut up. It does nothing to placate his hunger, so he simply chooses an especially charred piece of meat and bites into it.

Ivar’s smile is a tentative, yet radiant, sight. It blooms quite suddenly, setting his eyes alight from the inside out. Heahmund forces himself to tear his gaze away from such handsome happiness, focusing instead on serving himself a glass of milk. Trying to think of anything else is of no use, though; the vision of such a brilliant smile has already been etched into his memory, into the back of his eyelids. Heahmund silently prays it will not become another image which will assault him when he kneels, chained-up and devoid of sex.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Does what hurt still.”

“Your body.”

Heahmund hums; it comes out much deeper within his throat than he’d intended. For a moment, he ponders whether it’s a good idea to let the boy know of the pain in his limbs. Ivar doesn’t sound as mellow now; he’s back to being the fearless General whom Heahmund met on the rainy battlefield. And this boy is also cunning enough to use any and all knowledge against Heahmund; if he doesn’t do so now, he will do it later down the road. Thus, Heahmund concludes, he should never give Ivar anything he can hold over his head – and God forgive him, but his beloved bastard sword is still held as ransom in this devilish Heaven’s hands…

Ivar’s eyes flicker to his Adam’s apple as he swallows half a glass of milk in one go; another poor attempt at trying to buy himself some time before replying. Heahmund’s own is more pronounced than Ivar’s, which probably has something to do with how the boy’s voice is softer and not as deep. Heahmund stares directly into Ivar’s eyes as he sets the cup back onto the table, silently daring the boy to admit he’s been caught shamelessly staring at Heahmund’s body.

“Answer me.” Ivar presses instead; his voice is charged like it always is when he’s forced to repeat himself twice, something he is not fond of.

“You’re a petulant child.” Heahmund accuses him, taking another bite to let the boy know just how unamused he is right now.

“I have your life.”

As grammatically incorrect as his sentence might’ve been, Heahmund recognises that the boy is right. Nevertheless, he isn’t about to start measuring his words only because of that – if God intends for him to die in this Heathen’s arms, so be it. Heahmund’s destiny was written long before he was born. There is nothing he could ever do to change it. He can just accept it… and bring Ivar down to Hell with him, for Heahmund is surely bound to that fiery place after so many transgressions without penitence.

“It hurts.”

Ivar’s smile becomes a sharper curve, his equally sharp fangs now on full display. Heahmund cannot understand why such an admission makes him so… excited. There is no other word to describe the delectable aura surrounding Ivar; and, much as Heahmund wants to deny the charm radiating off him, he finds he cannot. This boy is truly magnetic, a man born to command others from his war-chariot. Where Heahmund has had his own intensity described as fervent zeal, Ivar’s own brand of charisma is completely different. The contrast, the familiarity of it all, sends his mind reeling.

“It will not get better.” Ivar sounds apologetic, but his eyes say he’s not.

“I know.”

“You need to stop thinking about it.”

“You seem to know a lot about pain.”

A shadow crosses over Ivar’s eyes, turning the brilliant blue into turbulent waters. The boy lowers his head, looks at the portion of table-wood in between his forearms. He seems unready for this topic. Heahmund intuitively knows he’s struck his mark spot-on.

“I do.” Ivar sounds quieter, perhaps because he’s not looking at Heahmund’s face anymore.

A heavy silence descends upon them. Heahmund’s appetite has vanished; he isn’t even sure of why that is. His stomach churns, though not because it hasn’t been fed until it’s full. Heahmund can almost feel the uncertain territory he’s landed on beneath his feet, murky waters staining his boots up to their uppermost edge. The boy seated across him offers a similar sight; however, Heahmund supposes Ivar’s uncertain territory is possibly more akin to a desolated fjord, all brilliant and treacherously thin ice under his boots and crutch.

“Distract me, then.”

“Huh…?” When Ivar raises his head to stare at Heahmund, his face is the most perfect picture of innocent confusion Heahmund has ever seen. Another image gets etched into his memory.

“You said I should not think about pain. So distract me from it.”

“Oh.” A slight frown, “ _Oh_.” He leans back, “… nooo!”

Heahmund’s chest expands a second before his heaviest sigh yet leaves him. Ivar keeps frowning, head tilted slightly to one side. The innocence from before is gone; now he merely looks wary – God send Heahmund his due punishment for his clear preference of–

“Play _Hnefatafl_ with me.”

Impressively, Ivar lifts the board one-handed and hovers it over the table, right in between himself and Heahmund. Not a single piece trembles atop it; the boy’s grip is as steady as the one Heahmund’s seen him use on his many knives and daggers. He takes a special kind of secret delight in knowing he would be well-matched in battle against Ivar. Such delight is _quite_ the sin, though, even if he admitted it only to the dark depths of his own mind. He silently prays to the Lord, so He may send him something sharp, something thorny, against which Heahmund could leave bloody traces of his repentance.

Heahmund sets the food and drinks aside, leaving only their respective milk-cups untouched, and Ivar lowers the board. They lean forward at the same time, examining the starting position as if it has changed since the last time they played against one other. Ivar is smiling again, predatory and charming at once; it tells Heahmund everything he needs to know, and then some.

“I will start.” Heahmund brings his right hand closer to the cluster of white pieces at the centre of the board, his King surrounded by them, secure in the middle tile. He’d rather play the black pieces, which would let him attack instead of trying to bring the white King to safety at one of four corners of the board, but this should be fine. He’s older than Ivar; he’s played this game more often. He sends one of his pieces vertically towards his own side of the board and retreats his hand. “Your move, Ivar.”

“You always start the same.” Ivar sounds happy because the smile hasn’t left him. He quickly sends one of his attacking, black pieces after the one Heahmund moved. “Be more… uh…”

“Creative?” Heahmund asks as he makes his next move. Ivar does the same before answering him; and _oh_ , the boy’s playing style already seems more offensively than usual. A small frown appears in Heahmund’s face as he tries to understand the intentions behind the change.

“No, just better at this game.”

A corner of Heahmund’s mouth rises at Ivar’s quip. Fancy how the boy thinks he can tease him, when the one losing three matches in a row the other day was Ivar himself. Too amused to stop it from showing on his face in the form of an intense stare and a wild smirk, Heahmund simply keeps playing. Their match has just started, after all; if Ivar continues to play this aggressively, he will focus too much on each individual piece and neglect the bigger picture. Heahmund can very well take advantage of that, knock this haughty boy back a few pegs, remind him that he may be a quick learner but still only a young boy.

They play in silence for perhaps twenty moves, if Heahmund’s mental count is accurate. The number of black pieces has dwindled to around half as many as they were at the start of their match; the captured ones lay in two ordered rows on Heahmund’s right side, out of the board. Similarly, there’s a smaller cluster of white pieces thrown on Ivar’s own right side, albeit much more haphazardly. The boy giggles as he manages to capture another of Heahmund’s pieces, letting it lay half on top of the captured ones with a flick of his wrist.

“Now I know why you were so quiet, brother.”

Neither Heahmund nor Ivar take their eyes off the board at the sound of another man’s voice speaking Old Norse to one of them. The newcomer must have noticed their full concentration, because he simply laughs and walks closer to their table. Heahmund makes his move right as the mystery man enters into his peripheral vision, and spares him a sideways look while he waits for Ivar to make his move. The boy has started to take his time with every move, planning them more and more carefully the less pieces he has left. A quick learner indeed, though Heahmund can already see at least three moves that may dismantle his whole strategy; for whatever reason, Ivar is not playing to his full ability today.

“He’ll beat you, Ivar.” Ubbe’s smile is a handsome curve betraying just how amused he is at the possibility of someone besting his youngest brother at _Hnefatafl_ , a game Ivar takes great pride in being good at. Heahmund’s eyes meet the stunning blue of Ubbe’s own and that smile diminishes slowly.

“Shut up.” Ivar replies in Old Norse to his brother. Then, he moves a piece as he adds in English to Heahmund, “You lose now, Bishop.”

“No, I do not.” Heahmund replies in English, narrowing his eyes at Ivar.

Cobalt blue flashes in the boy’s face, suddenly so unlike the deep hue of Ubbe’s own. Heahmund barely spares the eldest Dane another fleeting glance as he manoeuvres a chair to the table’s edge, so that he may observe the board sideways and avoid taking a side in their match. Had Heahmund had no taste of the two brothers’ dynamic already, he would’ve thought it strange that Ubbe didn’t rush to Ivar’s aid. Silently, Heahmund makes what should be the last movement in this match.

“How!” Ivar exclaims, pushing himself up until he’s hovering almost directly over his side of the board. His mouth hangs opened in disbelief; his strategy for Heahmund’s left side of the board lays in shambles. His eyes go from the piece Heahmund moved last to meet the latter’s gaze; then, with a shadow of a frown, “What did you just do?”

“Best you _._ ” Heahmund’s index points to the square the piece was in before he’d moved it and slides on over to where the piece rests now. It’s outside the neat little ring Ivar had been constructing around the white pieces; he cannot win the match while one or more of them remain outside the black ring. “ _Again_.”

Ubbe chuckles from Heahmund’s left side; his playful smile clearly says he’d seen this result coming from the moment he walked in on them mid-match. Ivar glowers at him – Lord forgive the wicked fire surging within Heahmund upon noticing that this stare isn’t as intense as the ones the boy gives Heahmund himself.

Conciliatory, or perhaps simply unaffected by his brother’s antics, Ubbe brings one elbow onto the table and leans his head on his palm. He’s turned more towards Ivar now, almost as if he doesn’t consider Heahmund to be a big enough threat to pay constant attention to what he’s doing. The thought prickles Heahmund’s skin; he’s supposed to be a Holy Warrior-Bishop, the bane of Heathens all throughout fair England, and yet here is one Ubbe Ragnarsson, all sardonic smiles to Ivar and none towards Heahmund.

“Play me again!” Ivar demands in Old Norse, his voice going up in volume and pitch. He looks wounded, offended that Heahmund won so easily. The sight alone brings a smirk to Heahmund’s face.

Then he looks Ivar in the eye, and his smirk fades.

There is a dangerous hue creeping up into the boy’s sclerae, swirling from dilated pupils towards the corners like deep blue ink spilling into a vase full of clear water. Ivar’s hands are steady on the table, but his arms are trembling, and he’s practically gasping with each breath he takes. They are all bad signs, although Heahmund is not entirely sure _what_ they foretell. His gut reaction is to get away from the beastly qualities suddenly easy to see in the boy’s face and demeanour; and yet something holds him back, as immutable as the metal ring and chain while he shifted in-and-out of a light, fleeting sleep.

“Ivar.” Ubbe’s concerned tone does little to calm the boy down, so he tries again, “Sit down properly, please. I’m sure he will play with you a lot.”

Heahmund’s skin prickles at the knowing look Ubbe gives him as he says that last sentence. Whatever this tall _Vikingr_ is implying, Heahmund doesn’t know; however, his relaxed attitude as he speaks tells many more secrets than his words alone. Something in the back of Heahmund’s mind stabs into his consciousness with a viciously pointy needle, reminding him that, right now, there’s another, more pressing issue than trying to decipher what exactly Ubbe had been referring to.

“I will play you again, Ivar.”

The boy smiles anew at Heahmund’s words, all white fangs and blinding light. He sits back down with mischief twinkling within his eyes. Heahmund opens his mouth to suggest another round of himself playing defensively again, but Ivar is quicker to act. He quickly starts to rearrange the white pieces on the board, carefully extracting some from the captured pile at his right. Ubbe tries to catch a rebellious piece as it rolls off the table; he fails. Sighing, he bends down to retrieve it, annoyed at how it hit the dirty ground and rolled right beneath the table. When he re-emerges, his long braid hangs down his front; he sends it back over his shoulder with one motion of his head. His piercing blue eyes remain fixed on Heahmund’s face as the Bishop rearranges the black pieces on the board.

“What do you want, Ubbe?” Ivar asks in Old Norse without even glancing at his brother, “Don’t you have something else to do?”

“Not at the moment.” Ubbe leans back on his seat, still glancing less often at Ivar than at Heahmund. Strange, the Bishop decides; even more so when the two brothers are speaking to one another, and not to Heahmund himself. “Why? Do I bother you?”

“Yes!” Ivar’s voice goes up in volume; Heahmund stares into his eyes. The spilt blue remains visible; it makes the boy look… self-destructive. A sideways look confirms that Ubbe acts like he’s got the same virulent fear, but far more knowledge about it than Heahmund does. “Go bother Hvitserk! Leave me alone!”

“You’re not telling _him_ to leave.” Ubbe’s words are perfectly calm as he points to Heahmund, although a whole storm flashes lightning-quick through his irises. It happens so fast, so horribly fast, that Heahmund is left wondering if he’d imagined that violent streak in Ubbe’s otherwise collected self. “And _careful_ , Ivar. I’m not in the mood, and you know why Hvitserk isn’t either.”

Ivar rolls his eyes just like the petulant child Heahmund had accused him of being. As indifferent as the display might’ve seemed, Ubbe is clearly not buying it; that storm from before is back as he leans both forearms on the table, almost challenging Ivar to say anything else. Ivar bites back whatever nasty remark he was about to proffer, turning his attention to Heahmund’s factions instead.

Heahmund questions him with a frown and a slight tilt of his head forward; enough of a gesture for Ivar to pick up on, but hopefully not something Ubbe will feel the need to comment on. The boy opens his pretty mouth again – God forgive this sinful body for being so eternally ravenous – and, instead of saying anything, just bites on his lower lip as he studies the board. Ubbe chuckles, bringing his own blue gaze towards the board too. Ivar acts as though his brother has ceased to exist; Heahmund swears he sees Ivar glance at his lips for a fleeting moment, and then back to the board before making his next move.

It takes Heahmund some seconds to tear his eyes away from the sultry pressure of Ivar’s fang over his lower lip. Thankfully, neither brother noticed anything going on. He doesn’t think as he moves one black piece from one end of the board to the other, which prompts Ivar to hum. When he finally releases his lip, it blooms white for a second before turning a deeper red than its natural hue.

Heahmund’s mind immediately goes to the numerous bites he gave to the _thrall_ last night, and to all other bedfellows he’s had over the years. If such a gentle pressure is enough to make Ivar’s skin redden delicately, Heahmund can already tell just how much fun his lovers would have with him; every night, too, if the boy desired it so. Heahmund has always enjoyed leaving his own partners bitten and bloodied, and it’s easy to see Ivar is the same exact brand of brutal in bed. Perhaps the boy is more inclined towards _giving_ marks than towards _receiving_ them, though. He certainly has a commanding aura around him at all times, even when he cannot match the calm confidence that Ubbe or Heahmund himself have; Ivar is still much too young.

God, but what is he doing, thinking about these forbidden topics so brazenly…? There is never a good time to think about such sins, but now is absolutely one of the worst occasions Heahmund could’ve picked, he recriminates himself. Not only is Ivar his captor and would-be garroter, but he is also one of the three Heathen Generals that Heahmund set out to eliminate from the face of the Earth. Not to mention that Ivar’s eldest brother is still staring at Heahmund with the inquisitive eyes of a bird of prey.

“Can’t you leave?” Ivar sardonically asks Ubbe, still in Old Norse as if that would exclude Heahmund from the conversation. When he looks at the boy’s face, he finds a lot of irritation; but that dangerous, spilt blue is mostly gone. It makes Heahmund’s nerves subside. “I’m busy. You’re distracting me.”

“I’m not looking at you.” Ubbe replies. Hints of danger swirl in his eyes; suddenly, it’s as if they have turned at least three shades darker. The shortest hairs at the back of Heahmund’s neck stand on end, just like they do when anybody dares threaten him. Best to remain silent, he strategizes; there is no way of knowing which angle Ubbe is playing. Ivar’s plans are better this round, but his interrogation skills need some polishing.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Ubbe?”

“Looking for an answer.” He looks from Heahmund’s face to the board, where he can see both players are well-matched like they weren’t before. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, Ubbe turns towards Ivar. “You’re playing well now.”

“As if I hadn’t been before.” Ivar snorts; his goading smirk sends a single, cold shiver down Heahmund’s spine.

“Sure.” Ubbe’s smile clearly says what Heahmund is thinking about Ivar’s ability to spin a tale of lies while making it sound like the truth. Ubbe must’ve felt Heahmund’s eyes on his profile, because he turns to return the stare. The _Vikingr_ doesn’t miss a beat as he keeps speaking in Old Norse, his own cadence deliberately more drawn-out than Ivar’s sharper consonants, “Luckily for you, brother, I think I already have a part of my answer.”

Heahmund straightens his back and stares at Ubbe, easily surpassing his intensity – O God Almighty, how Heahmund wishes he were staring into the deepest blue he’s ever seen in his entire life, and not into this quiet beast of a protector…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Ivar being annoyed when Heahmund accused him of being a bad host: Hospitality is very important! Norsemen took great pride in being good hosts; and it’s mentioned in the [Hávamál](https://www.pitt.edu/~dash/havamal.html#wanderers) too!
> 
> Bráðr means “hasty”, “impatient” in Old Norse.
> 
> Hnefatafl is a “Viking chess” kind of game; it was popular before (Indian) chess took over. Ivar and Heahmund have played it in the show; see [episode 5x07](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmVbnaE8WiM). You can find the rules [here](http://aagenielsen.dk/fetlar_rules_en.php).
> 
> Dýrr means “precious”, “dear”, “expensive” in Old Norse.
> 
> Vikingr means “warrior”.


	4. Pain Redefined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: a lot of mentions of sexual content, a lot of innuendos, mentions of (physical) scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxPc3uqmmEk) by Disturbed, yet again, but the lyrics don’t have anything to do with this fic.
> 
> In this (long) chapter, two Ragnarssons clean up while Heahmund silently suffers their antics; then he’s whisked away to bathe with the third.
> 
> Please note that I’ve taken some liberties about the Ragnarssons’ physical looks; some have the tattoos from the last season even though they meet Heahmund in like… S5. I just love Norse designs for tattoos, I need to show them off!

The sun is already high up in the sky by the time someone comes to Heahmund’s prison. The Bishop is awake; he’s spent much of last night sleepless, thanks in no small part to his own overthinking of Ubbe’s motives to intrude in Heahmund’s and Ivar’s game yesterday. The Ragnarssons remain one of, if not _the_ , best-guarded secret of the entire Great Heathen Army; Heahmund cannot truly make heads or tails of any of them. Perhaps Ivar is the least complicated so far, though only because he spends so much of his time by Heahmund’s side that the Bishop has gotten enough time to observe and analyse him.

Ubbe, however, has done nothing but establish himself as unreadable, even when in the same room as Heahmund’s watchful eyes. The information about him that the Bishop has been able to glean off Ivar and the rest of the Great Heathen Army could easily fit inside a thimble and still not reach its upper edges. Oh, by the Grace of _God,_ how is Your humblest servant supposed to combat these Heathens from within their own Army when he knows nothing of them…?

“You’re awake.”

The soft, yet deep, voice distracts Heahmund from his dire thoughts. He pries his eyelids open to spare a glance at whoever entered this prison.

The first thing that catches his full attention is that this person is _not_ Ivar, although they look almost equally young. The sunlight coming in from the opened door sets his long hair alight, backlighting it until it shines almost like the holy halo of Mother Mary. When he takes some steps towards Heahmund’s kneeling form, he instantly recognises him.

Hvitserk looks at him, the sheer force of his curiosity giving a certain twinkle to his eyes. Heahmund frowns, too exhausted from his forced insomnia and the soreness in his lower body to properly guard himself. Hvitserk doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss with him; Heahmund concludes he is either too dense to have noticed, or so keen that he knows he should never show when and how he reads into others.

Hvitserk remains as unreadable as Ubbe was yesterday while he sits down cross-legged in front of Heahmund. He fidgets with his loose hair as if it bothers him, making the Bishop’s attention go to his dirty-blond locks. They reach down to almost the middle of his chest; strange that he decided to forego his usual, complicated braids today.

“Good morning.” Hvitserk’s pronunciation in English is not as fluid as Ivar’s, but that was to be expected; Ivar has been getting much more practise, always at Heahmund’s expense. It’s also very possible that Hvitserk simply doesn’t know this language as well as his brothers do, for he quickly changes into Old Norse to explain, “Ivar says you speak our tongue too, so I assume you can understand me.”

Heahmund gives a faint nod of his head, gaze never leaving Hvitserk’s form. The boy appears to be unarmed, dressed in only a woollen shirt and simple pants laced at the front with the same kind of bow Heahmund’s seen _Vikingar_ secure their ships’ sails with. Hvitserk smiles at his silent answer, the shadow of dimples appearing at the sides of his mouth, and opens it to say something else. Alas, the Bishop’s stomach decides to interrupt him even before he’s had the opportunity to even start.

“Oh, _noo_!” Hvitserk laughs. The sound bounces off the bare prison-walls just as beautifully as it would off a cathedral’s stained-glass windows. Combined with the light in his blonde hair, Hvitserk almost resembles a mischievous cherubin. “You can eat later, I promise. Ivar wants you to be well, so I should look after you!”

The irony of such a young boy looking after a fully grown Warrior-Bishop makes Heahmund snort.

“Ubbe and I will keep you company.” Hvitserk keeps speaking like he hasn’t heard nor seen any of Heahmund’s reactions. The Bishop stares as Hvitserk reaches into a tiny pocket at the back of his trousers and pulls out a small, half-rusted key. Heahmund’s frown deepens when he recognises the key as the one that fits the lock at the back of the metal ring around his neck. “Ivar is… _busy_.”

There is something about how he intonated that last word that betrays exactly what kind of pleasurable businesses Ivar is attending to. Heahmund decides to not read into it; he needs no further headache than the one brought on by sheer lack of sleep. He stares at the key as Hvitserk shows it to him, turning it around in his hand as though the Bishop needs to see it from all possible angles.

“I’ll let you free now. Can I move closer or will you attack me?”

Heahmund tilts his head slightly to the right, silently pointing to the slidable piece of the metal ring around his neck. For some unfathomable reason, he’s loath to speak in Old Norse to Hvitserk or Ubbe, although it’s already been established that Ivar has told them both Heahmund can not only understand it, but speak it as well. Hvitserk smiles and leaps onto his feet; his agility doesn’t go unnoticed. This is a nimble warrior, and most likely a _Vikingr_ who can go almost unnoticed in his happiness until disaster requires him to strike hard and fast.

Notes of the same darkness which Heahmund saw yesterday in Ubbe’s very blue eyes swirl in Hvitserk’s expression as he unlocks the metal ring. He needs several more attempts at it than Ivar would’ve needed, Heahmund notices instantly. Their similarity is unexpected when it reveals itself; both brothers show the tip of their tongues in between their lips while they concentrate hard on doing something. Once the lock clicks undone, Heahmund struggles to separate the ring himself; the angle is off, and he needs to apply pressure almost sideways for it to budge.

“You know… maybe we can just do a little trip to the kitchens before meeting up with Ubbe.” Hvitserk’s smile remains as playful as his tone. At first glance, Heahmund wouldn’t have guessed the middle child was the family’s troublemaker; now, though, it’s starting to make quite a lot of sense. Ubbe is the eldest, the one who’s been tasked with the most responsibilities; and Ivar is the youngest, a prodigy at war, but also volatile. Thus it makes sense that Hvitserk, unbound by the burden of either extreme, would become the middle point in between both his brothers. “Ubbe can wait for a bit longer, right?”

“How do you know, I will not escape?” Heahmund asks in Old Norse, trying to pronounce all harsher sounds with the same gentle growls that Ivar pronounces them with. He half expects to be corrected immediately; but Hvitserk says nothing about his accent and merely shrugs. Another little difference setting him apart from his brother’s endless teasing.

“Ivar says you won’t, and he knows you best, so…”

Of course. Ivar. Everything in this place is determined by the boy’s whims, even when Ubbe and Hvitserk are also the leaders of the Great Heathen Army. Their brotherly triumvirate seems lopsided, though; people may refer to Ubbe to settle petty disputes and communicate the Ragnarssons’ plans to the _Vikingar_ , and they may rope Hvitserk into all improvised celebrations and drinking contests, but no person in this forward-camp fears Ubbe or Hvitserk like they fear Ivar. Heahmund has seen his handsome captor in battle; he can understand why Saxons and Norsemen alike prefer to give him a wide berth as he passes them by. Still, Ivar has never been especially cruel towards Heahmund – God send appropriate punishment for daring to think of a wicked Heathen as anything more than Hell-bound.

Before Heahmund fully realises it, he’s been led into the kitchens. Several _thralls_ are fighting to control the dough that’s quickly rising before their very eyes; one of the plumpest girls gives Hvitserk a coy look as he walks by her side, the back of his hand brushing against her long skirts for a fleeting second. Heahmund leans a shoulder against the doorframe, waiting for Hvitserk to finish flirting with this woman. If the Heathen keeps this up for long enough, his lips will split open from how often he’s licking them, glancing down at her skirt at the same time. Heahmund’s experience knows exactly which act the rowdy Prince is thinking about.

Somehow, the vision of a mischievous Ragnarsson licking at his lips to provoke someone into letting said Ragnarsson fuck them brings him recent memories – blue eyes shining fiercely, as though glassed over with spilt ink, a bitten lip blooming first into white and then into the deepest of well-kissed reds. A Fallen Angel if there ever existed one. The most handsome of temptations, the most intriguing of storms, that he has ever witnessed in God’s fair lands.

“Father…”

At the mention of such an overtly Christian title, Heahmund looks down and to his left, where a petite girl is offering him a plate of food and a knife to eat it with. She cannot bring herself to meet his eyes; it’s endearing and annoying at the same time. Heahmund spares another glance at Hvitserk, who is still doing his utmost best to charm that woman even as she playfully rebukes him with words and actions alike. It seems this Ragnarsson enjoys the thrill of the hunt, the pumping of blood into his temples as he chases a wiling partner down. Heahmund files the knowledge away in the nook of his memory dedicated to storing information about the three Generals and eats as fast as he physically can, trying to get his fill before Hvitserk forces them both to go. The petite woman blushes and smiles, her gaze going to the unlaced front of his undershirt – by God, how easy it would be to satiate his ever-present hunger with this willing, lithe body…

But then she meets his gaze, and her eye-colour is wrong.

Heahmund scoffs, setting the knife atop the plate she’s still holding for him, and moves away before she can say or do anything else. To expect an obviously Saxon woman to have irises the colour of rich navy-blue ink… his stomach turns as though he will not be able to keep any of the food he’s just consumed inside – O, God, what has Your faithful servant done to deserve these cruel punishments…?

“You’re done too!” Hvitserk’s chirpy voice brings Heahmund back to the present. “Let’s go then, Ubbe’s waiting and he’s probably pissed!”

Hvitserk’s crystalline laugh resounds in Heahmund’s ears as he follows, feeling almost too eager to leave the petite Saxon behind. A single glance to the one Hvitserk had been chatting up a storm with reveals a new, reddened mark above the starting valley of her breasts, shining on her skin like a precious gem in any Princess’ necklace.

Hvitserk keeps chatting with almost everybody they meet as they walk outside, throwing seemingly meaningless Old Norse words around like they do mean something important. Heahmund keeps pace behind him, giving in to his urge to examine this blonde volatility as closely as he can before he’s forced to withstand not only Hvitserk’s overly happy self, but also Ubbe’s quiet confidence and knowing smiles.

Hvitserk looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be; there’s no shortage of funny comments and witty replies coming from his thin lips. He calls most people by their first name, although there are some where he resorts to their family-name instead; and even others who only get a couple repetitions of their nicknames. Hvitserk’s hair turns around as quickly as the boy himself, flowing in each and every direction with the slightest turn of his head. It almost seems a metaphor to how carefree Hvitserk himself appears; it’s clear that, although this boy must be almost as old as Ubbe, he’s free from moral weights, unlike his older brother. Heahmund is almost jealous of how unselfconsciously Hvitserk moves down the narrow corridors, letting passing _Vikingar_ playfully bump their shoulders with his own.

Soon enough, they reach the outside. There’s the scent of cattle being kept in the pens and fields behind the building they’ve just exited from, and the metallic _tings_ of iron being moulded into weapons and armours. Heahmund’s eyes narrow during the painful second it takes him to grow accustomed to so much sunlight after being confined indoors. Once the reflex passes, he can see that Hvitserk is leading him behind the main building, and into a more secluded area of the forward-camp. The _Vikingar_ remain on the opposite side of the house, either training with especially blunt and half-rusted weapons, or staying close enough to the blacksmiths to see them work without getting in their way. Hvitserk gains more than a few questioning looks when Heathens notice Heahmund trailing closely behind him; but none dare question a Prince, a General, a Ragnarsson.

“The battle will be good!” Hvitserk shouts in Old Norse to a curvy shield-maiden. She replies with a crude gesture and a cruder laugh; Hvitserk echoes her, excitement easy to see in how his eyes twinkle, the light turning his green irises almost translucid white.

Heahmund quickly decides against questioning him about this upcoming battle, for Hvitserk would surely have little of consequence to say. He’s not the strategical mind behind the Great Heathen Army’s plans, after all; he’s merely another _Berserkr_ who lives to be set loose on the battlefield. If Heahmund wishes to obtain details about not only the fight itself, but also about how it has been conceptualised, he should bring the topic to Ivar’s table instead. Subtly, of course; Ivar’s senses are sharp, and his mind is keener than most. He’d have no issue realising Heahmund’s true intentions if he doesn’t choose his words carefully, much as the Bishop tried to disguise them under the veil of wanting to raise his sword in defence of a young Heathen General.

O Lord Almighty, the thought of how wide, how brilliant, would the boy’s smile be upon hearing such a devilish thing is enough to tie Heahmund’s stomach into a tight, painful knot.

“About time.” Ubbe declares in Old Norse, his voice coloured with annoyance at his brother.

“Sorry, sorry!” Hvitserk giggles in between words, his jumpy laughing giving his usually deeper voice a breathy quality, “We’re here now.”

“I see.” Ubbe’s eyes glint like a predator’s as he takes in Heahmund’s appearance. The Bishop tries to dissimulate his turbulent emotions, to hide the soreness in his thighs, and pray Ubbe doesn’t notice the dark circles under his eyes. It’s all futile, though; Ubbe is undoubtedly a man used to unveil others’ intentions from little to no information. It’d be only natural, for he’s the oldest sibling, the one who instinctually rushes forth to protect his younger brothers from others’ ill wills. “Ivar still keeps you chained below his room?”

“ _Já_.” Heahmund draws the vowel out slightly more than strictly necessary because it lets more of a rasp creep into his voice. It’s a sharp contrast to Hvitserk’s pronunciation, which is softer around the edges, and also to Ubbe’s warmer tone. It marks Heahmund out as foreign, places him in a different soundscape than the one these Danes are in.

“I wonder why.”

Hvitserk frowns at Ubbe’s teasing intonation and knowing words; he stares at his brother as though he’s just grown another head from his shoulders. Ubbe, however, is looking only at Heahmund, who stares right back into the intense blue of his eyes. Their stare-down lasts for only a moment more; then, Ubbe looks away from his face and to the side.

A low wall born from the main building’s wall delimits the cattle’s roaming fields which extend further behind the house. Currently, there is a mixture of sheep and cows grazing on the deep green grass, all kept in the same place because suitable cattle-fields can be scarce; the forward-camp is somewhere between the true countryside and the outer reaches of the occupied city of York. Heahmund follows Ubbe’s gaze and movements as the Heathen steps away from Hvitserk and into the shade offered by the slanted rooftop, rolling his shoulders like he’s quite glad to not be in direct sunlight anymore.

Atop the low wall rests a small wooden recipient, too concave to be a bucket and with too deep a belly to be a true basin. Heahmund wonders if this is a Norse invention brought from their icy homelands, or something they came up with while in England due to sheer necessity.

Ubbe is not shy to shed the undershirt he’s wearing, though he does turn until he’s in between Hvitserk and Heahmund. His upper body is made solely of lean muscle with very few scars marring them; something to be expected from a man who fights with an axe in one hand and a shield in the other. Ubbe does not act shy even when he raises both hands to the end of his braid, undoing the leather band keeping it secure before starting to tug the locks loose. He groans every so often; Heahmund quickly realises his hairstyle is more complicated than what appears at first sight. Numerous stripes of leather keep it secure at various heights, which Ubbe is patient in removing one-by-one. His hair is half-loosened by the time Heahmund notices that this was not a unitary braid made with all of his hair, but several smaller ones made into one thicker braid.

“You shouldn’t stare, Priest.”

Heahmund blinks slowly to hide his annoyance at having been verbally demoted from Bishop to simple Priest; when he reopens his eyes, his gaze has risen to Ubbe’s own. If the Heathen feels disturbed by the simmering intensity in Heahmund’s eyes, which he’s intentionally maintaining, he acts as if he is not.

“My little brother is easily jealous… you shouldn’t look at me like you want to swallow my cock whole.”

“I’m not!” Hvitserk immediately chimes in; he sounds as offended as he looks. “And also, what the fuck Ubbe?!” _That’s my line_ , Heahmund thinks, “Do you really think he’s like Sigurd was?”

“Who knows.” Ubbe replies to his brother. Heahmund files this new name away; he’s never heard it from Ivar’s lips, but it seems clear that, whoever they were, they were close enough to the Ragnarssons for them to pick up on their sexual preferences. For some reason, that line of thought turns Heahmund’s mood sour; he can only guess it’s because he wishes for these three brothers to never know of his own appetites, even though Ivar most definitely already knows everything about them. “Priest, you know you can clean up too, right? There’s enough water here for–”

A loud splash cuts Ubbe’s sentence short.

Heahmund can merely look on, internally very amused, as Hvitserk gathers more water from the wooden recipient into his hands and throws it at Ubbe’s face. It drips from his eyelashes, sparing Heahmund and Hvitserk alike from another chastising stare, and forms tiny droplets in his full beard. When he shakes his head to either side, trying to stop water from getting into his eyes, his half-wet hair whips Ubbe’s torso, neck, and face; it also splashes Heahmund’s side.

“ _Hvitserk_!”

The accused brother merely laughs louder at Ubbe’s warning growl. Heahmund discreetly moves closer to the building’s wall, trying to get as far away as possible from Hvitserk’s splashing range; he doesn’t fancy the very real possibility of ending up with a wet undershirt before being placed under Ivar’s closer-than-close scrutiny – by _God_ , why do all his thoughts coalesce into the boy…

“Is that why you brought me here? To clean myself up?” Heahmund asks to Ubbe, trying his uttermost best to ignore Hvitserk’s juvenile laugh as he takes off his shirt too.

The middle brother is also made of lithe muscle, though he’s not as broad at the shoulders yet as Ubbe is. Hvitserk will most likely fill out properly in a few years’ time, Heahmund muses, just like Ivar will too. More surprising than his breadth, though, is the fact that Hvitserk’s left pectoral and arm are decorated in intricate ink. The design seems to represent a figure, though Heahmund can’t quite make heads or tails of it. It’s heavier with ink at Hvitserk’s chest, going down to his rib and as far up as to reach the outer curve of his shoulder; the design is complete by a part made of thicker lines and shadowed areas wrapping around his arm, the lowest edges ending before the most vulnerable parts of his inner elbow.

Heahmund idly wonders how much such an intricate tattoo would’ve hurt to get, and for how many hours must Hvitserk have withstood the torture of being poked with a pointy stick covered in blue ink. The _Berserkr_ doesn’t give him, nor Ubbe, even a passing glance as he crumples his undershirt and throws it onto the low wall; it lands right by the wooden recipient’s side.

Heahmund feels a twisted sort of curiosity rising up within him at the sight of all that ink on Hvitserk; it makes him think that this Ragnarsson might even _like_ feeling pain. It contrasts quite nicely with Ubbe’s more regal presence; and not just because his skin, unlike his brother’s, is bare as far as Heahmund can see. Then again, it seems perfectly plausible that Ubbe chose different body-parts to be adorned in saturated blue ink; perhaps to avoid being accused of copying Hvitserk if the latter got his own designs done first.

“Partially.” Ubbe answers with an exasperated sigh; still, his gaze betrays just how fond he is of Hvitserk. Their brotherly bond is so painfully easy to see that it almost hurts Heahmund, who cannot recall ever having had anybody he wished to call his sibling. “It’s also because we figured you could use some sunlight after being locked up. If it were up to Ivar, he would’ve kept you in chains until he came back.”

“I take it he left the forward-camp?”

“Oh no!” Hvitserk answers him this time. He’s running his hands through his hair; it’s already so wet that it appears twice as thin. The effect isn’t particularly flattering, but Heahmund supposes it doesn’t really matter when he’ll probably braid it back up as soon as he’s done; Hvitserk didn’t look so comfortable to have it completely loose. “His horse is still here, so he must be too.”

Heahmund decides against pointing out that Ivar could’ve very well had taken any other horse precisely to make people think that he’d never left. Ubbe’s gaze meets his for a second and Heahmund instantly knows Ubbe is thinking something along those same lines too.

“Ivar is… fickle.” Ubbe admits, his volume low like he’s admitting a great secret. “I’m sure he’ll come around, in time. Especially if _you_ stay.”

“I haven’t got much of a choice.” Heahmund rasps under his breath, English words coming more naturally to him than their Old Norse counterparts.

Hvitserk gives him a long look, probably confused by his quite sudden change of languages. Heahmund pays him no mind; he’s busy contemplating the self-assured curve of Ubbe’s smile. So far, it is difficult to say how much of Ubbe’s confidence is genuine and how much is an act he puts on in front of the Heathens he commands, in front of his brothers, in front of Heahmund’s Christian fervour. If Heahmund had to guess, it’s most likely a product of all options, though in different measures depending on who is nearest to Ubbe at any given moment.

The pressure of command, Heahmund’s military experience tells him. This young man feels he should be as brilliant a General as Ivar, and yet fails short on at least one field; strategy seems to come much more naturally to Ivar. This is a thread that Heahmund could very well tug on to make Ubbe unravel; a fatal weakness which he can exploit when the right time comes. Where Hvitserk’s weak points come in more earthly forms, such as mead and pretty people to surround himself with, Ubbe’s fears are more complex, more incorporeal, by comparison alone. Heahmund racks his brain to try and locate Ivar’s weak points too, if only to complete his mental composition of the Heathen triumvirate; alas, the most handsome Ragnarsson remains guarded, untouchable in both his strengths and weaknesses.

“ _Hvat_ …?”

“Ivar!” Contrary to what Heahmund has come to expect, Hvitserk doesn’t splash water in the direction of the newly-arrived brother; he merely smiles as wide as his jaw allows him to, all teeth and dimples. The line of Ubbe’s spine deepens when he looks over his own shoulder at Ivar, whose dark gaze remains fixed on the front of Heahmund’s undershirt; he doesn’t react even when Hvitserk adds in Old Norse, “You’re finally here! I was starting to worry.”

“Why is my Bishop here?”

“I am _not_ “your” Bishop.” Heahmund interjects before anybody can answer Ivar’s growl with one of their own. Ivar keeps staring at his front, unperturbed by anything going on around him; in a way, it’s almost as though he hasn’t heard a single word beyond what he’s said himself thus far.

Heahmund’s treacherous heartbeat picks up when Ivar’s eyes lighten with a flash of dangerous cobalt. The boy moves two or three steps towards Heahmund; then, the hand not holding onto his crutch grabs him by the wrist. His grip is tight to the point of bruising his skin, scorching Heahmund there where the undershirt’s sleeves aren’t long enough to cover him properly.

“Why is your shirt wet, but your face is not?” Ivar asks in English, most likely to keep the conversation hidden from his brothers’ less in-depth knowledge of this language. His frown is just as dark as his growl, though neither fall particularly threatening into Heahmund’s ears.

Ubbe decides to turn around then, his powerful torso in full display as he leans his hands on his hips, right above the hem of his tightly-laced trousers. With his hair falling loose down his back and chest, darkened and thinned from how damp it still is, he looks every part the scolding mother-hen. Hvitserk catches sight of Ubbe’s profile and snickers before starting to braid his own damp hair.

Heahmund pointedly ignores them both; he does as good a job at it as Ivar does at downright ignoring every single Norse word that leaves Ubbe’s lips. He shows absolutely no remorse when he interrupts his eldest brother, his voice undulating like a petulant child would intonate when trying to manipulate their parents into extending their bed-time hour past midnight.

The sudden reminder of just how _young_ Ivar truly is hits Heahmund in the gut with all the potency of a horse-kick – God’s _bones_ , he will certainly go to Hell like he’d predicted, but not for the reasons he’d thought…

Heahmund lets Ivar tug on him until they round the building’s corner, away from Ubbe’s admonishing words and Hvitserk’s joyful laugh at Ivar’s antics. His patience has a limit, though; and it manifests in how abruptly, how violently, he moves his arm back. It breaks Ivar’s grip on him, and makes the boy look at him. His big eyes shine with the deepest of blue hues under the sunlight hitting them sideways; thankfully, there’s no spilt ink worrying Heahmund. If anything, Ivar simply looks… wounded.

Heahmund’s stomach quivers under his thin, half-wet undershirt.

“What did they do to you?” Ivar asks in English, his gaze firmly locked with Heahmund’s in spite of the acute pain he seems to be feeling. Heahmund can only guess that today is a “bad day” for his legs, as he’s heard Ivar call these occurrences before.

“Nothing. They said you were busy, so they kept me company until you returned. Hvitserk allowed me to have breakfast, Ubbe simply spoke with me.”

“While they bathe?”

“That is _not_ a bath.”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“That’s how cats lick themselves clean. A bath means being submerged fully, not just splashing water on one’s body.”

Ivar cocks his head to one side, just as he always does when planning an especially cunning move at _Hnefatafl_. There is something quite unnerving in how his gaze roams so languidly all over Heahmund, going from his eyes to his lips, following his jawline down his neck, and further down his displayed cleavage and wet undershirt. Heahmund almost wishes he could take his own words back; they’re undoubtedly the reason why the boy is staring at him like this. A low hum leaves Ivar’s throat, deep like he’d meant for it to be a growl, though the sound never gets full enough to be one.

“Bathe with me.”

Heahmund chokes on air at the possible implications of such a sentence; he barely manages to keep his volume down, so that Ivar will not catch wind of his weakness. When he stares into Ivar’s painfully blue eyes in search of an explanation, all air is knocked out of him once more; and even more brutally than before.

Fear.

That is all Heahmund can see in Ivar’s eyes, in his half-parted lips, in how the boy is standing his ground yet almost trembling. This vulnerability is nothing he’s seen very often in this haughty boy; Heahmund can recall only one occasion where Ivar has been so open with him. They’d been discussing morality and theology, arguing about whose beliefs are the most real and about who deserves to never get an afterlife for believing in what they believe in; and Ivar’s eyes had flashed cobalt blue, more and more pained the longer Heahmund monologued. In truth, he’d only been repeating the dogmas which have been imprinted into his memory, into his very core, right from the moment his training as a Warrior-Bishop began; but Ivar couldn’t have known that.

Loud ghosts swirl around Heahmund now, just as they did that first time when he unintentionally wounded Ivar so.

“Why?” He asks instead of rebuffing the order right off the bat. It seems courteous to at least give Ivar the opportunity to make a case for himself – by God, but when did he become so courteous to the dirty Heathens he’s been sent to eradicate…?

“Uh… because you need one?” Heahmund would feel offended on principle, but he has absolutely no room to rebuke that. Ivar has, after all, said the truth. “And I do too.”

“Very well. I will bathe… with you.”

“It was not a question, Bishop.” Ivar’s smile is the same sardonic curve Heahmund has learnt to interpret as proof of the boy’s happiness. He quickly decides against doing anything else other than following suit after Ivar, lest the boy decides to interrogate him about why Heahmund couldn’t say such a simple sentence without a brief pause.

Heahmund’s undershirt can dry almost completely by the time they enter the small forest delimiting the forward-camp from the East. Ivar leads him quite steadily, although he must slow down every so often to not trip over overgrown tree-roots, and to avoid having his crutch slide on fallen leaves. Heahmund doesn’t really mind their changing pace; it gives him time to better observe the unfamiliar forest.

It’s not as dense with trees and bushes as the one Heahmund remembers having traversed in Canterbury, even though a rider on horseback would have as hard a time galloping through these lands as they would through Canterbury’s own forests. Still, it’s a viable escape route on foot, should Heahmund be so cornered as to have to resort to that instead of simply stealing a fast horse and travelling North, where he’d be bound to reach the city of York in less than a full day.

He hears jumping water before he sees it. Ivar leads him to the riverbed and simply sits down, grabbing a smooth pebble and throwing it right in the middle of the current. It goes down with a low-pitched sound; there must be quite the height from the surface to the bottom. Ivar looks at Heahmund’s face, smiling mischievously, loose strands from his braids trembling in the light breeze. Heahmund relaxes his shoulders, agreeing that the spot seems good, and sits down by Ivar’s right side.

“Do you like it?” Ivar asks him, voice full of expectations. Combined with how the light makes his irises appear even bluer than the river’s waters, the boy looks… sweet. Comfortable. Not at all like the wicked Heathen General who Heahmund met on a bloody battlefield.

“I do. It is… quiet.”

“I know!” Ivar’s smile shines as brilliant as his eyes. “I come here to think. We will fight tomorrow, so I… strategy…?” Ivar frowns, looks towards the river to hide the fact that he doesn’t know the appropriate verb form in English.

Heahmund waits for a moment, wanting to give this sharp boy a chance at figuring it out himself; he’s done so on multiple occasions before. Besides, it extends the time he has before Ivar remembers what he’d proposed Heahmund to do before coming all the way out here. A hot flash has him looking away from Ivar’s profile and bending one knee until he can rest his elbow on it – Good God, please allow your most faithful servant to sin once more, for flesh is weak and his resolve is crumbling…

“Strategize.” He practically growls when Ivar keeps mumbling nonsense under his breath, inventing new words in search for the appropriate verb. “To figure a strategy out, to strategize.”

“Strate… gize.” Ivar’s way of separating the syllables is completely wrong, but his pronunciation makes up for it, even as his accent colours it much differently than how Heahmund said it. “Strange word.”

“As if your language is any better.”

“It is!”

“Not to me.”

“But you speak it so well!”

Upon hearing the compliment, Heahmund turns his head towards Ivar, looking from under his lashes for a second before centring his scorching stare on the boy, just like he does when angling for a devout widow’s sexual attentions. And, just like them, Ivar visibly reels from the effect; his lips part, his demeanour turns coyer, but he stands his ground. He always gives as good as he takes. Heahmund respects that more than he will ever put into spoken words, so he relents. The intensity of his gaze diminishes when he looks at the riverbed instead – by God, has he really played this game so often now that putting this performance on has become _this_ unconscious…?

“You look like you want another… gift.” Ivar’s tone is as teasing as his words. “Should I give you another one?”

“Would you?” Heahmund is loath to admit it, but his own voice has gone hoarse, and his volume has gone down so much that he’s merely whispered his question to Ivar.

“Sure.” A small pause as Ivar rolls both his head and eyes in unison. “Why not? I want you good.””

“Well.” Heahmund unconsciously corrects him, trying to shut up all treacherous whispers about whether this boy would be so quick to learn things in bed as he is out of it, “You wish someone well, you want someone to be well.”

Ivar hums; he’s probably committing the full phrases to memory so he will not make the same mistake again. Heahmund frowns the instant he notices the boy’s usual annoyance at not having been perfect from the start is now absent. Ivar must be either fully relaxed, or already thinking about something else entirely. Heahmund isn’t yet sure which option would be worse.

The answer reveals itself much more quickly than he was prepared for. Ivar leaves the crutch by his left side and reaches for the clasps securing his leather outer layer. Deft fingers undo all clasps and shrug the leather off his broad shoulders in what looks like a single, smooth motion to a half-stunned Heahmund. He would’ve never thought that Ivar would be so willing to disrobe in front of anybody, much less in front of the Christian Bishop with whom he constantly butts heads; and yet here they are.

Ivar leaves the leather by his side and tugs on the collar of his undershirt until he can pull it over his head; then he lets it rest bunched-up atop his jacket. Heahmund moves instinctively, as though there is something, _someone_ , else guiding him, to give the boy all the space he needs to crawl to the water’s edge.

“Take off your clothes.” Ivar’s voice wavers only slightly; Heahmund takes secret delight in how much it softens the command. The boy splashes water onto his face before adding, “You will fight tomorrow too.”

“I will not fight for you, Ivar.”

The boy trembles; it’s difficult to say if it is because of the water’s temperature in contrast to his body’s own or because of how Heahmund rasped his name out. Either way, it further underlines the uncertainty Heahmund can read all over Ivar’s posture. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t let up even when Heahmund’s gaze leaves his form.

When Heahmund disrobes from the waist up, he still refuses to look at Ivar head-on; he largely prefers to show skin and scars while the boy’s gaze is away from his body – for only God knows what this irreverent boy would say upon seeing Heahmund’s–

“You’ve fought a lot…”

“I have.” Heahmund answers in Old Norse, since Ivar used this language too when he whispered his sentence out. Heahmund can feel the boy’s eyes on the overlapping scars crossing his back horizontally and diagonally, but he still does not meet Ivar’s gaze. “Not all of these are from war, though.”

Ivar exhales in a shaky sigh that prompts Heahmund into risking a glance at the boy’s expression; from sound alone, it must be quite sweet to look at – God spare His loyal swordman from impure thoughts tonight…!

Ivar turns his head away as Heahmund looks at him, almost as if he wants to give him some semblance of privacy while he finishes disrobing and slides into the water. Heahmund has to admit that he finds the gesture quite unusual coming from this boy; nonetheless, he welcomes the opportunity for what it is. It’s undoubtedly a small blessing that Graceful God has bestowed upon His servant for enduring his captivity so steadfastly thus far.

Heahmund groans when cool water touches his warmer skin, covering him from the hips up. He swims further into the river until he knows he’s well out of Ivar’s reach; if the boy wished to harm him, he’d have to throw something at his head, and all pebbles on the riverbed are much too small and smooth to cause Heahmund any real damage. The Bishop doesn’t turn around to look at Ivar as he plunges into the river until he’s fully in its depth. He holds his breath for as long as his lungs allow him to; then, he re-emerges with a deep groan as his chest burns from lack of air, crystalline water jumping all around him before continuing its path downwards, to the forward-camp’s grounds.

“Tell me all the stories one day.” Ivar sounds quite breathless, and much closer to Heahmund than he’d expected the boy to be, considering he’d left him back on the shore. When he turns his head to look over his shoulder, blinking away the thick droplets falling from his hair and wiping them off his beard, Ivar is inside the river too; though still close to land. “Your scars. I want to know the stories.”

“Tell me those of yours in return.” Heahmund’s throat aches as he speaks. He fully blames it on not having breathed for a while. Ivar’s eyes bore holes into the space between his shoulder-blades; phantom pain arises as ghosts of the past whisper into Heahmund’s ears.

“Alright.” Ivar’s hands appear from underneath the water’s edge and rise to undo his braids.

Heahmund can only stare as if he were deeply entranced, though he still does not turn fully. If he must endure the boy’s gaze roaming free all over his exposed skin, he’d rather have it focused on his back, and not on his front – Heahmund knows he wouldn’t be able to resist biting back at any of the Heathen’s crude words about his size.

“What are you thinking about, Bishop…?”

“None of your concern.” Heahmund quickly turns his head, focusing on splashing water on his chest and arms. It’s not every day he feels smaller than other men, even when he logically knows most Norsemen are built broader; yet somehow, to have this feeling come from _Ivar_ , of all Heathens, is unnerving and exciting at once.

God Almighty, help this filthy sinner as he struggles to resist temptation…

“I need you. Fight for me.”

Heahmund’s hands have paused at that first sentence; at the second, they resume moving. The argument feels almost stale by now, even though Ivar has quite the talent for keeping it alive and well after all these days. Heahmund thinks back at Hvitserk and Ubbe; it seems his perfect chance to learn more about this upcoming battle has finally arrived.

“I cannot fight a war I know nothing about.”

“I say nothing to you, if you don’t fight in it.”

Heahmund smiles at Ivar’s stubborn attempts to phrase complicated sentences in English just because Heahmund used this language first. Ivar’s grammar and vocabulary may still need work, but his meaning is clear; and he’s become quite adept at switching his words around and using synonyms whenever he needs to. Curiously, it’s the same strategy Heahmund uses when speaking in Old Norse. He idly wonders if it’s because he and Ivar think alike, or if all language students resort to the same techniques.

“Would you give me my sword back?”

“You need it to fight, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then, I would.”

Heahmund’s smile remains hidden from Ivar’s view when he fully submerges his body once again. The motion reminds him of holy baptism; and that feels like a familiar reprieve from the Heathen’s verbal onslaught. When he comes back out, Ivar is protesting with a litany of Old Norse curses, of which Heahmund can only understand half due to how quick and guttural Ivar is deliberately pronouncing them. Unable to hide the self-assured smirk that’s taken over his face, Heahmund glances at Ivar over his shoulder.

“I hate you! Don’t move!”

The unbridled _terror_ in Ivar’s voice makes Heahmund’s smirk drop; he quickly stops everything he’s doing and turns around to face Ivar – God, please don’t let him have done any damage to the boy General he should’ve felled in battle instead…

One of Ivar’s hands is well below the water; the other, firmly on the land’s edge behind his body. A hint of spilled ink shines inside his eyes, and it’s that last detail what further fixes Heahmund to the pebbled ground beneath his feet. A few moments pass in silence, the river’s waters content to run around them, undisturbed because neither man is moving anymore. Heahmund looks at Ivar in the eye and the boy returns the stare with one of his own; it’s as if both are requesting an explanation for what has just happened. The boy doesn’t offer any and Heahmund doesn’t pressure him into giving him one; he’d already supposed proud Ivar wouldn’t say a single word about his own weakness.

Slowly, Ivar lets go of the land behind him to run that hand over his hair. Some dirt and at least one tiny leaf gets stuck in his thick locks; Heahmund couldn’t stop staring at them even if he’d tried. Ivar looks at him, follows his gaze as best as he can from such an awkward angle. When he speaks, his voice is as uninterested as his posture indicates.

“ _Hvat_.”

“You dirtied your hair again.”

“Do I look like I care?”

“You should.” Heahmund switches languages; there’s simply no way he could’ve said all of this in Old Norse without a hitch, “You came here to get cleaned, not to come away dirty like a pig in the pen.”

“Clean me yourself if it bothers you _that_ much!” Ivar bites back in Old Norse.

Heahmund’s chest expands; then, he sighs as heavily as his lungs allow him to. O God, what a petulant child… Ivar’s even blushing now. Heahmund interprets it as a clear sign that this prickly boy spoke without thinking all his words through beforehand. Then again, there shouldn’t be any issue, reckless as he acted like; Heahmund is a warrior, a man of the cloth; not a _thrall_. There is absolutely no way he would take Ivar up on that offer – not for as long as God remains in his thoughts–

“ _U-uhh_ …”

A fire ignites in Heahmund’s lower belly upon hearing such a wanton sound leave Ivar’s throat.

He tugs on the longest strands of Ivar’s hair again, feeling more than seeing how the boy gasps again. Ivar is trembling like he’s been completely depraved of another’s touch for far too long; Heahmund has never gone more than a full week without it, but he can still sympathise with him. His hands are gentle as he pours water over Ivar’s head and combs his fingers through his black hair, now gone even darker from how wet it is. Ivar takes a shaky breath in; he’s so close that Heahmund’s wet skin breaks out in goosebumps when the boy exhales just as shakily.

Overcome by a feeling which Heahmund prefers to leave unnamed, if only so he can save his soul while damning his flesh for being so weak, he looks at Ivar’s face. The boy allows him to hold him by the chin, although his gaze still darts all around for some seconds more before it settles on Heahmund’s own. Heahmund keeps his eyes firmly on Ivar’s – God punish him for having almost succumbed to the urge of glancing down to those half-parted lips…!

“Your plan and my sword triumph tomorrow.”

Heahmund feels his soul aflame with more than lustful sin when Ivar smiles that blinding, sincere smile of his at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vikings washed on Saturday! But honestly this fact was just my excuse to write three sexy Ragnarrssons and a thirsty Heahmund.
> 
> Vikingar is the plural form of Vikingr (“warrior” in Old Norse).
> 
> Berserkr is the Old Norse word for warriors who fight in a trance-like fury (some sources claim they were intoxicated with mushrooms while fighting). English spells it as “berserker”.
> 
> Já means “yes” in Old Norse.
> 
> Hvat means “what” in Old Norse.
> 
> Fun fact: “Hvitserk” literally means “white shirt”; it’s believed it was a nickname for one Halfdan Ragnarsson (the series called him Hvitserk, although some texts about Ragnar and his sons mention Halfdan instead).
> 
> Also the city of York was called Eoforwīc in Old English, and Jórvik in Old Norse. Still, I will keep on calling it York for the sake of clarity!


	5. Am I Precious To You Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: canon-typical violence, graphic descriptions of violence, fights, and wounds. Some lines border on gore. There are mentions of religious trauma and wounds which have left scars; and also some angst at the end.
> 
> Consider this chapter the "hurt" to next chapter's "comfort".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title are lyrics from the song [Rise by Disturbed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BseYqdUulY).
> 
> In this chapter, a portion of the Great Heathen Army clashes with Anglo-Saxon forces as the latter try to reclaim York, and someone takes a bloody fall.  
>   
> Truth be told, I don’t think I’m very good at writing fight scenes just yet, so please feel free to criticise! I strive to improve!  
> 

Heahmund’s left hand hasn’t left his sword’s pummel even since Ivar returned it to him earlier today. Ubbe and Hvitserk had given them strange looks before exchanging a different kind of gaze with each other; but since Ivar had stubbornly refused to explain his reasoning, they quickly let the subject go.

The _Vikingar_ , however, were another fight entirely. Heahmund had taken great delight in cutting one right down his middle when he’d insinuated that the only reason why Ivar the Boneless had returned such a precious weapon was because of what the Bishop had done to Ivar’s body last night. Heahmund’s pleasure had increased tenfold at Ivar’s gleeful laugh upon witnessing the scene – by God, if he will not be allowed to sin in lust, he will unleash bloodthirst today, and pray for divine punishment to come.

“You’re fired up.”

Heahmund looks to his side, where Ivar is securing his white horse to the war-chariot. It’s almost strange to see the boy doing this himself; usually he’d merely order it to any _thrall_ and be done with it. The horse seems suspicious, as though believing Ivar will harm it. Heahmund leans one hand on its neck, trying to calm the beautiful creature down. Ivar looks at his face first; then, his gaze falls to the leather sheath at Heahmund’s left hip. He doesn’t smile, but the gleam in his eyes says it all.

“I am. You did not give me any gifts last night.”

“ _Oh_ , Bishop…” Ivar does smile now, all innocence sans for the mischievous spark flashing cobalt blue. “I need you centred today, not distracted by a _thrall_.”

“Sex doesn’t distract me.” Heahmund refuses to meet Ivar’s gaze for as long as they remain on this topic; yesterday’s incident at the riverbed is still too fresh in his mind – the Good Lord help his weakened conscience concentrate today, even with the phantom feeling of thick, dark hair coiled tight around his fingers…

“Good! You remember the plan, yes?”

“Yes, Ivar. You needn’t remind me.”

The Heathen tilts his head to one side, frowning slightly at the strange verb-form. Heahmund doesn’t bother explaining; he simply aids Ivar as he secures the harness on the horse and throws the reins over its neck, towards the war-chariot. When Ivar walks by his side, his gloved knuckles brush against the precious stone embedded into the pummel of Heahmund’s sword’s. The Bishop acts like he doesn’t notice how Ivar glows. It’s hard to keep all his sanity intact, but he manages to do so until a shield-maiden runs up to them.

“They’re almost there, my Prince!”

Ivar nods at her Old Norse and makes a slight gesture to dismiss her. She gives a very pointed look to Heahmund, whom she must regard as merely Ivar’s pet Christian, just like the rest of the Great Heathen Army view him as. Her gaze lingers over his sword and attire, though whether she’s appraising or disgusted remains unclear.

Heahmund, feeling powerful and back to his best form while dressed in his dark leather armour, returns her darkened stare with one of his own, intentionally being much more intense than her. He feels more than sees Ivar’s gaze going from his profile to the shield-maiden’s face.

“Why are you still here? Go!”

The shield-maiden appears almost startled by Ivar’s biting Old Norse; then, she gives Ivar another nod and brings one hand to her axe’s handle to prevent it from shifting around while she runs away. Satisfied by her obedience, however belated it might have been, Ivar climbs onto his war-chariot and looks down to Heahmund with half-parted lips. The Bishop almost resists the urge to interrogate him about this look.

Almost.

“Tell me, Ivar the Boneless.”

“Nothing.” He deliberately draws the English word out as much as he can; he’s used so much air that he needs to do a small pause to breathe again before adding, “I’m just… admiring you. You’re strong. _Fríðr_. One of us.”

Heahmund acts as though he doesn’t know what that word in Old Norse means; this doesn’t seem the time to accept any compliments from a Heathen Prince-General. It is quite an easy task when Ivar was so generous as to give him another whole sentence to focus on instead. An especially scathing stare is the perfect compliment to his straightened back, to the danger surrounding him like the darkest of haloes. Ivar stares right back, ever the profane instigator to Heahmund’s darkest lusts.

His blood boils within his veins. All of his battle-instincts whisper insidious truths into his ears.

“Ubbe and Hvitserk must be ready by now. We should go, too.”

Heahmund brings one hand to his sword’s pummel and looks around for a horse to mount; it seems unfair that Ivar gets to join the battle on his chariot while Heahmund’s still on foot. The Bishop is too good a warrior to fight dismounted; Ivar has said it himself more than once at this point. True, Heahmund muses as he tries to locate a horse, most of the sword-fighting techniques he knows can only be used while on foot, but still.

“No horse for you today, Bishop.”

“May I know why?” Heahmund all but growls, turning around to face Ivar once more.

“Because I say so.” The Bishop barely resists the urge to call him a petulant child; what he cannot contain is the snarl forming in his face. “But I know that you will be tired if you run to the battlefield. So, come.”

Upon hearing that order, Heahmund’s gaze goes from Ivar’s lips to his extended hand. The boy’s gloves cover his hands more fully than Heahmund’s own, probably more due to his personal preference than because he fears having the leather reins bite into his palms mid-fight. Heahmund grips his wrist instead of his hand and looks into Ivar’s eyes as he does so, wanting to admire whatever lighting might flash through those impossibly blues. Ivar doesn’t disappoint him by not reacting, though he is much more subsided than he’d be if he and Heahmund were alone.

When Ivar returns the gesture to transform their hold into a warrior’s clasp, the tips of his fingers slide in between the hem of Heahmund’s sleeves and that of his gloves. Such rough leather caressing his vulnerable skin almost makes Heahmund wish Ivar wore fingerless gloves instead, if only so he’d have the luxury of having the boy’s body-heat permeate into his own. The sole idea seems blasphemous, much more sinful than his usual impure thoughts. Heahmund holds on to the side of the war-chariot as the boy steers it, giddily urging the horse forward – Lord Almighty forgive him, for he’d rather hold on to the Heathen General’s powerful body…

The ride to the empty field where the battle is to take place is short, although more because Heahmund was lost in his own mind than because the distance is not so great. Ivar leads his chariot to be in front of his army and looks to his _Vikingar_. They’ve formed three neat rows, shields at the ready to start a more defensive formation, weapons drawn. In front of them, Saxon forces have gathered in perfect disarray; it seems they either do not have a leader or are getting sloppy with their strategies.

Ivar smirks at the sight, probably thinking that this battle will be easy if the Great Heathen Army can remain in between the Saxons and the occupied city of York. He gives Heahmund a look as he dismounts from the war-chariot, immediately kneeling by its side. Ivar’s gaze is all fire; it burns further through Heahmund’s armour and underclothes the longer he stares. The Bishop tries to ignore it, although it makes sweat gather at the back of his neck, high under his collar. He takes his sword out of its sheath and brings it up to his lips, kissing the central part of the hilt. Strangely, he cannot offer a single word to God today; not when his heart is turbulent.

He is on the Heathens’ side.

He, a Saxon Warrior-Bishop trained to kill Heathens, is on those very sinners’ side. Even if he followed through with the stray ideas he had last night as he laid on the floor of his prison, neck unchained yet wrists and ankles bound at Ivar’s personal request, it would mean nothing. Even if he killed _Vikingar_ and refused to harm a single Saxon, his good conscience wouldn’t let him rest. He should be fighting for the winning side, for the Saxons.

But, at the same time, the mere thought of being the reason why betrayal crosses over Ivar’s eyes brings him immeasurable pain.

Heahmund knows himself mad for that, and for suddenly not wanting to cross the Heathen General he’d set out to destroy. The wild urge to give the boy a certain brand of pain is still present within, of course; violence became his usual state of being long ago. Only this time he does not wish to _hurt_ Ivar beyond any and all repairs.

His inner turmoil rises in volume and force until it resembles a storm tearing into his damned soul. When Heahmund’s lips separate from his sword, much gently than he’s ever kissed anybody, he suddenly realises that he had Ivar in mind during the scared kiss he always devotes to God, for his sword’s blade and guard form a cross he’s allowed to pray over before a Holy War.

Ivar observes him for a second more, then looks to the Saxons. They’ve started to advance towards the Great Heathen Army, still in a wild chaos of a formation. The boy raises his axe and shouts the first half of a piercing battle-cry in Old Norse. His _Vikingar_ answer with the remaining half of the sentence, their voices filling the field. Heahmund rises from the grass and dirt, grips his sword properly in his right hand. Ivar spares him another passing glance as he orders his white horse forward, leading the Heathens’ charge. Heahmund remains right where he is even as the first row of _Vikingar_ follow their Prince-General; staying put instead of blindingly charging in is the logical thing to do when their objective is to prevent the Saxons from reaching York.

That was the only part of Ivar’s plan in which he, Ubbe, and Heahmund had seen eye-to-eye. Hvitserk had deliberately stayed out of all plotting, stating that he’d rather let his brothers handle it. Heahmund had gotten the impression that the young _Berserkr_ just wanted to participate in a good fight regardless of how it was conceptualised; and neither Ubbe or Ivar had done nor said anything to contradict that idea. After quite a long process of trial and error, Heahmund had grown tired of the brothers’ petty squabbles and finally asked which was their objective; to prevent the Saxon armies from reaching York, or to simply kill for the sake of killing.

Ivar’s bloody answer, delivered with a bloodthirsty smile only matched by that of Heahmund himself, resounds once more in the Bishop’s ears as he observes how the Great Heathen Army collides against Anglo-Saxon shields and swords. The eager _Vikingar_ behind him huff and puff on equal measures, excited by the promise of participating in the bloodshed. Heahmund turns his sword in his grip, skilfully gyrating it in a defensive circle before slowly advancing towards the battle. Only then does another Heathen row roar piercing growls and follow him, their pace contained solely to let Heahmund be the one who leads their charge; best to let their prisoner be the first to die than expose their own necks.

It feels strange to suddenly be placed in what surely amounts to a Heathen leader’s position, Heahmund realises. A shield-maiden from the front row has her attack parried right in front of him, which causes her axe to swing backwards with great momentum. Heahmund moves by instinct alone, catching the axe’s curve with his blade and forcing it away from his body with a two-handed grip on his sword. The shield-maiden roars her thanks in Old Norse without even looking at him; she probably thinks it’s another _Vikingr_ who helped her get back into the fray so seamlessly.

Despite the chaos reigning all around him, Heahmund finds it’s easier to breathe now than it was in the Great Heathen Army’s forward-camp. He’s loath to admit it out loud, lest a certain boy general catches wind of it, but he truly might not be so different from the _Vikingar_ and _Berserkir_ fighting by his side. The clashes of iron against iron, the splintering of wooden shields until only the metal frame remain, and the cries of bloodlust and pain – God save his sinner’s soul for feeling much more alive here than he’s ever felt while in the reverent silences of any church, of any cathedral…

A Saxon soldier attacks him blindly, without even recognising his dark armour as that of a Warrior-Bishop and not as a Heathen one. Heahmund cannot in good faith fault him for it, though; this soldier is wearing a very heavy helmet, which obscures his vision of everything but what is directly in front of him. The Bishop’s conscience may be marred by blood beyond repair; his sword, so tainted it should’ve lost its astonishing edge long ago – but, God willing, he will not kill any good Christians today.

Parrying the soldier’s torpid blow is easier done than said for Heahmund’s vaster combat experience. Their blades slide together, rough iron against alloyed metal. Had the Bishop used his strength tiny bit more, sparks would’ve flown from the points where his blade meets the soldier’s. Heahmund takes a step forward, secure in his position, muscle memory carrying him through the motion much better than conscious thought ever could. The soldier’s grip falters; if he’d been fighting any Heathen it would’ve most likely gone unnoticed from how imperceptible it was, but Heahmund sees and feels it instantly.

Fear.

O, how Heahmund has missed being respected and feared on equal measures in a dirty battlefield… Lord forgive him for his violence and send His thorns for a suitable penance.

Once he’s by the soldier’s side, Heahmund changes his grip to both maintain the pressure on that Saxon blade while at the same time liberating his off-hand from his own sword’s handle. The soldier hasn’t seen it coming; it’s clear this is not a sword-fighting style he’s familiar with. Heahmund counts it as a small victory, although he’s painfully aware that it is the natural result of his upbringing, of his training. His techniques are all foreign to the Heathens, yes; but they are equally foreign to all Anglo-Saxons, too.

Instead of finishing the soldier off with a single blow, as he’d usually do to any Heathen, Heahmund gives him enough of a push to let him roll off his blade. The metallic sound it produces is lost almost entirely from the clamour all around them; a shame, for Heahmund’s soul is aflame for it. Bloodlust burns bright within his veins as he takes some steps towards another direction, letting that Saxon soldier be lost from his sight. His mind reels as much as his instincts do when he must tell himself that, no, he will not maim nor kill the first person who enters his sights today.

Still, he reasons while he parries a flurry of attacks from three different Saxons by reflex, Ivar will be the first to call him out if his blade isn’t covered from tip to guard in crimson deep when the battle ends. These Heathens who now fight on his same side, at least officially, have all seen the carnage he can do. Thus, if Heahmund were to try and feed them any tale contradicting that which they know about him, about his bloodlust and prowess in battle, they would not believe a single word. Worst of all, Ivar would call him out on it. Heahmund can confidently say he hasn’t done many things to provoke the boy’s whimsical rage, but today is a prime opportunity to break such a clean record if he’s not careful.

Luckily, all battlefields are messy by definition. It’s always complicated to keep track of what direction is which while one’s mind is lost to bloodlust; and it’s downright impossible to know where every single person is at any given time. The minutiae of war, Heahmund has heard this effect called before, although he cannot recall who said it, nor when. Too many years have already passed since then, too many battles have been fought; and Heahmund has remembered the turn of phrase in every single one of them. It is funny, in a twisted sort of way, how he’s oblivious to some memories at all times, except for the precious, blood-boiling moments where he feels _alive_.

One of his three Saxon attackers takes a throwing axe to the back and falls limp onto the ground. Upon seeing it all unravel, the other two roar and throw themselves into Heahmund’s defensive stance. He skilfully avoids the first and turns his body to not have him attack from his back; these dark leathers might offer a lot of protection, but there’s only so much they could realistically do against a close-ranged blow. From his sideways position, it’s easier to send the second Saxon towards a raging _Berserkr_ before completing the spin to once more face the one who attacked him first.

This soldier seems quite eager to prove himself in battle, yet completely out of his element. He’s a good two decades younger than Heahmund, if those boyish factions are any indication; there’s something about throwing such young people into war that’s never sat right with Heahmund’s conscience – even though God knows he was much younger than this Saxon soldier when he killed for the first time.

For a moment, Heahmund is sure the Saxon will charge at him in a feeble attempt at taking him down. But then the soldier’s eyes go down the front of Heahmund’s armour, where a wooden cross hangs, and recognition flashes in his eyes. A battlefield is no place for a gleeful smile from a man who clearly does not experience the high of bloodlust; yet Heahmund finds himself not minding it on the boy’s face. He offers him a quick blessing, almost a sped-up version of the cross he draws in mid-air during Mass, and allows the Saxon to move away.

Once again, Heahmund is left alone. The Heathens pay him no mind, most likely thinking he will fight for them because Ivar told them so. The thought sends a scorching heat flashing down the Bishop’s spine – God preserve his immortal, immoral, soul…

Curiously, not even the Saxons are coming at him anymore, deigning him a too-powerful enemy to engage openly. Heahmund would feel grateful for not having to parry away any other good, God-fearing man; but no matter how much he tries, he cannot shake the feeling that there is something off about this whole battle.

Heahmund looks around to re-orient himself, having lost most of his perspective when he got roped into a four-way match. The occupied city of York should be at his left now, which means that the Anglo-Saxon armies will be marching in from his right. Good. He’s right-handed; if enemies come at him from there, they will quickly meet the pointed end of his blade.

Heahmund wants to feel repulse at how easy it was to refer to the Saxon soldiers as his enemies; and yet… O Lord Almighty, what is happening to Your most loyal of servants…?

A horse’s pained cry centres the Bishop’s full attention on the present. Strangely, it comes from his somewhere far away at his left. Heahmund can only recall seeing one horse today, and it pulled on a handsome Prince-General’s war-chariot.

A flush of panic so acute that it brings back memories of wounds which left broad scars across his back. Ghosts of past pains start to swirl in tight circles around him. He starts running without thinking first, so uncharacteristically that it makes terror surge cold and quick through his spine.

The city gates should have been guarded by Ubbe’s Wolfpack, as the Heathens so affectionately refer to the hordes Ubbe holds full command over; alas, when Heahmund arrives, already short of breath, there is another battle happening here. Ubbe is up on the scaffolding directly above the main gate, trying to fight off four Saxons at once. His metal shield has already beaten in at multiple points; still, his grip on his axe is firmer than any other man’s would be in such dire odds.

Heahmund wastes no time in climbing up towards him, using his whole strength to throw some Saxons down the scaffolding. One lands flat on his back and stops moving entirely; another takes the fall at an awkward angle and his arm splinters, white bone now protruding out of his body. Ubbe uses the momentum to its full extent, since the Saxons are still confused by Heahmund’s sudden entrance, and cuts the third soldier’s head clean off his shoulders with a single, powerful swing of his axe. Somewhere in between all the blood and neck-bone flying off, his unhinged gaze meets Heahmund’s controlled own.

It is eerie to see so much bloodlust lighting Ubbe’s eyes from within. The usually calm man now appears more than ready to simply kill his way down the scaffolding and through the entire city if he must. A storm has broken inside his irises, darkening them until they’re almost completely black; and yet sudden flashes of light blue shine every so often when sunlight catches them at just the right angle. His gaze flickers to Heahmund’s sword, still so devoid of guts and gore, and then goes back up to the Bishop’s eyes.

Before Ubbe can accuse him of not having killed anybody yet today, Heahmund lets someone catch him from behind, although he’d already seen the grapple coming, and twists to the left just enough to stab backwards into the assaulter’s stomach. His blade’s ascending angle means it can penetrate right in between the ribcage and continue ascending diagonally, towards the heart. As soon as the grapple’s pressure around his middle decreases, Heahmund pulls his sword away from the falling body – Lord let it be a godless Heathen he just killed, and not one of His good men…

When Ubbe catches his gaze again, he gives a slight nod to acknowledge him. If he thinks it odd that Heahmund is here, even though their plan specifically detailed that he’d stay at the main battlefield away from the city, Ubbe doesn’t say. In fact, he doesn’t say a single word before scurrying away to the other side of the scaffolding. He barks an order in Old Norse to his Wolfpack, who is fighting below and refusing to scatter off even when Saxon soldiers flee from their immediate reach. Then, Ubbe turns towards the city-wall, into which a heavy metal wheel is built. Heahmund quickly locates its twin on his own side of the scaffolding and mirrors Ubbe’s posture.

Annoyingly, they both have to sheathe their respective weapons to have free both their hands; these wheels are much heavier than they look at first glance, if such a thing is even possible considering what the first impression is. A shield-maiden without a shield climbs behind Ubbe and takes his own from him; then, she uses it to defend her Prince-General from arrows and stray blows. Heahmund, on the other hand, is not granted the same courtesy; it’s clear the Wolfpack does not care about him.

That knowledge is logical, and something to be expected – but then why, Lord, why does it sting Your faithful servant so…?

Ubbe growls more guttural than Heahmund has ever heard from him as he turns the wheel to his right with great effort. Heahmund lets out a growl of his own when he tries to turn his own wheel; he then realises this one turns to the left and moves it to that side instead. The chains running up either side of the main gates screech as they get pulled by their cranking of the wheels they’re attached to. The overwhelming scream of falling metal covers every other battle-sound for a moment that feels eternal to Heahmund and Ubbe alike; then, the city gates fall closed.

Heahmund has no time to even question Ubbe about why in the name of dear _God_ were those opened in the first place when their objective was to keep the Saxons _out_ ; the Prince-General has already reclaimed his shield and retrieved his axe. He jumps from the scaffolding as though he didn’t fear being left broken by the fall; Heahmund understands it only a moment later, when Ubbe lands atop two Saxons who had been corralling one of his men against the metal gates.

Heahmund mentally praises Ubbe for being so unwilling to let a single member of his Wolfpack die without at least trying to save them. For being a member of a society which places great importance upon dying in battle, Ubbe’s code of honour seems to work differently than most. It definitely is distinct from his brothers’ own; that is, if Hvitserk even has a moral code in the first place, for Ivar’s own was most likely broken a long, long time ago.

Speaking of Hvitserk, Heahmund muses as he jumps down from the scaffolding too, where _is_ he? Their plan had given him the most difficult part, since his Heathen forces should be currently fighting off Saxons all around the city…!

Heahmund wonders, and not for the first time, if this decision has been wise. It’d at least seemed appropriate while he and the two Ragnarssons were planning; because, as Ubbe had been so quick to point out, Hvitserk is a _Berserkr_ who needs to be completely surrounded by enemies to unleash his true strength. Hence why Ivar had agreed on letting Hvitserk handle all fighting against the city’s walls; apparently he becomes such a flurry in battle that relegating the bloodiest part of their plan to Hvitserk personally, instead of to his forces, wasn’t so mad an idea as Heahmund had initially thought.

A horse cries out in pain somewhere deeper within the occupied city. Heahmund’s heart rises up his throat, lodges itself somewhere in between his trachea and Adam’s apple and beats with intense fright. Heahmund’s mind is much too frayed than to question how he can know that it is a white horse who cried.

He ignores the Old Norse battle-cries and flying swords and axes as he takes off running once more, following the main street. Thankfully, every single one of these good, God-fearing civilians has barricaded themselves inside their houses. While being able to revolt and rise up against their unwelcomed Heathen invaders has a certain, poetic appeal to it, Heahmund is glad nobody disturbs his flight.

It is relatively easy to avoid crashing into Saxon soldiers as he runs towards the city’s central square; however, it isn’t so easy to shake off the feelings that Heathens are observing his every move. His most logical part knows it to be only an impression he’s getting from how on edge his instincts are, from how uncontrolled bloodlust roars within his veins. He ducks under an axe swinging at shoulder-level and parries a Saxon blade with such a precise timing that its feeble iron breaks, leaving a confused soldier with only a useless handle as the Heathen whose barbed-axe Heahmund avoided finishes him off. Heahmund acts like he cannot hear the Old Norse growl, although he does recognise some words; the _Vikingr_ thought it fitting to thank Ivar’s pet Christian for his recent service.

The wooden cross slaps rhythmically against the front of his armour as he moves; he’s so used to its ebbing back-and-forth that he almost doesn’t notice how close he came to its rope being cut more than once during his charge. The cross keeps swinging slightly when he stops in front of the stone bridge leading towards the Castle of York. Its sight is always impressive, almost intimidating to those who’ve never been inside such a proud place. Heahmund spares it naught but a passing glance, though; no Saxon would attack it before securing strategic positions inside the city itself first. The risk of failure would be much too high; especially considering that the brunt of the Great Heathen Army’s leaders are believed to command their forces from within the Castle’s dark walls.

Strangely, there are more Heathen corpses littering the streets here than there were back at the main gates on the opposite side of the town. Heahmund only needs a single look around to recognise the man whom these Saxons soldiers are following into battle; his armour is more detailed, and his sword appears to be of better quality. He’s standing in the middle of the bridge leading to the Castle, as though he doesn’t fear being a prime target for archers.

A wild ruckus comes from somewhere in the right side of the bridge, there where Heahmund cannot yet see due to the building by his side. The Saxon Commander looks in that direction and takes a step down the bridge, towards the town. Heahmund quickly leans his back on the nearest building and stays as shrouded in shadows as he can; the sky might be covered in clouds, but daylight shines through them every so often.

Heahmund hears Old Norse long before he sees the person who growled all those threats. His grip on his sword tightens. Recognition strikes him true and painful – a stab through the heart if there ever was one, and by God Almighty, Heahmund reels upon knowing himself devoid of any plan to follow through.

Saxon soldiers throw an unarmed Ivar the Boneless onto the dirty ground, right in front of the bridge. The Saxon Commander reaches his side with two languid steps and simply stares at him with the same hatred in his eyes that Heahmund knows he himself sported the first time he was confronted with this devilish boy. Ivar raises his head with all the arrogance and presence that only those who possess true resolve have. Heahmund cannot see the boy’s face, but still knows exactly what kind of stare that Commander is receiving right about now. He received one exactly like it the first time he met Ivar across a rainy battlefield.

The Saxon Commander says something in English; Heahmund can catch about half of each word’s syllables from how low the other’s volume is. Ivar’s response is to simply bark a filthy laugh and use Old Norse to goad the man into striking at once. There’s something interesting about how Ivar absolutely refuses to speak English with anybody except for Heahmund; but the Bishop is far too worked up now to dwell on that, on its implications, as much as he’d love to.

Heahmund counts at least ten men on his left, coming from the street leading up to the bridge, and he may be the best swordsman he’s ever known, hideous sin of pride notwithstanding, but this is too many Saxons to fight against, even for his skills. Bloodlust whispers insidiously into his ear as he chances a look into the right street, where he can count four more. The Saxon Commander wields a heavy, two-handed blade; Heahmund knows he’d have no trouble going up against him, because his own sword allows him to move quicker, but the two soldiers flanking their Commander would undoubtedly strike at him from both sides. Experience has taught Heahmund that he can only block from one side at a time, which would leave him with yet another horizontal scar across his forearm.

Ivar trembles almost imperceptibly, although his legs are bent at an odd angle that Heahmund hopes comes from his poor perspective and not from spilled ink within the boy’s eyes. The Saxon Commander raises his sword above the boy’s head. It’s clear he already knows that Ivar isn’t physically able to escape. Heahmund’s grip on his own blade is so tight his muscles are screaming in pain. When Ivar shifts as if to show his stubborn pride to the Saxons, his legs don’t look broken; and yet Heahmund’s heart beats with the fear of watching Ivar fall with blue sclerae.

As if to calm his nerves, Heahmund takes a quick glance at both the boy’s sides. He doesn’t like what he sees. If Ivar tried to roll away, he’d meet the well-armed Saxons who surround him. If he rolled backwards, towards Heahmund, he’d end up with his legs severed at the mid-thigh from the Saxon Commander’s blow.

That heavy, two-handed sword cuts the air.

Heahmund moves by instinct and bloodlust. A foreign voice resounds within his mind – within his immortal, damned soul.

The Commander’s blade buries itself on the ground by Ivar’s right arm. The boy gasps. Heahmund takes his sword away from underneath the Commander’s, breaking his own parrying in favour of a change in his grip. From there, it is easy to stab to his right, into a Saxon soldier’s unprotected neck. The soldier’s sword falls to the ground before his corpse, since it was held aloft by Heahmund’s sword until he ripped it out and into a parrying an incoming Saxon’s blade.

“ _Þákk_!”

Heahmund growls in response to Ivar’s show of gratitude, desperately trying to get the Saxons off the boy. That foreign voice inside his mind sings a smug song when he sends another two Saxons to meet their Creator – Heahmund knows himself forever damned; and yet he cannot bring himself to care about his own damnation when Ivar’s deep-blue eyes catch his own.

Admiration swirls amidst spilled ink, giving a luminous hue to his otherwise very darkened eyes. Ivar’s gleeful intensity is only matched by Heahmund’s own as he returns his gaze. The moment stretches for an eternity. It feels peaceful and exhilarating at the same time. Heahmund’s blood thrums a low drone in time with the feeling of being more alive than he’s ever been before. From the never-blinking look Ivar gives him, the boy is experiencing the same heightened sensation.

The Saxon Commander’s blade moves in Heahmund’s periphery. He turns to meet it with his own blade. Suddenly a small throwing dagger lodges itself right in between the Commander’s eyes. Heahmund uses his momentum to bypass its corpse and blade as they both fall backwards, halfway onto the bridge, and positions himself on the other side of Ivar’s legs. The boy coils himself tighter, quickly grabbing another fallen Saxon’s sword to defend himself with.

Heahmund’s mind refuses to cooperate with his instincts. He moves by bloodlust alone, refusing to acknowledge any part of what he’s doing. With every step he takes and every move he makes, the wooden cross hits his chest, his abdomen.

Sin washes over him. Shame and guilt engulf him.

And yet he does not drop his sword. He does not surrender. He does not accept an earthly, Saxon punishment for killing good, God-fearing men. He does not even wait for divine fury to strike him down into the fiery depths of Hell.

Heahmund simply keeps fighting around Ivar, defending this devilish boy to his last breath.

Until all the Saxon soldiers and their Commander lay dead around him and Ivar. Until he can see the boy look up at him with that same admiration from before, covered in blood and with horrible, spilled blue in his eyes. Heahmund smiles at him, not snarling nor smirking for once.

Until a terrible pain extends over his left side and around his body, higher than hip yet lower than rib. Heahmund watches as Ivar’s expression grows violent and unhinged. He watches when the boy throws his weapon at some point behind and to Heahmund’s left.

When he falls to his knees, he and Ivar are of the same height. Ivar’s hands fly to him. Heahmund can barely feel his touch. He resents Ivar’s leather gloves, his own black armour, the blood pouring out of his body.

He falls forward, eyes closing, ears ringing with the Old Norse he thinks he hears Ivar pronounce, panic and something else colouring his voice.

“ _Dýrsins mínn_ …!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fríðr means “handsome” in Old Norse.
> 
> Berserkr (plural form “Berserkir”) is the Old Norse word for warriors who fight in a trance-like fury (some sources claim they were intoxicated with mushrooms while fighting). English spells it as “berserker”.
> 
> About Heahmund’s fighting style: I’m not an expert, but in his fighting scenes in the series he uses a different set of skills than Saxons and Heathens. I cannot give any proper names because I don’t know them, though; I just notice how differently he fights from basically every single other character in this series. And I love it!
> 
> An image of the city of York can be found in [this link here](https://www.yorkpress.co.uk/news/11212065.edwin-ridsdale-tate-the-man-who-captured-medieval-york/); I used the first picture in the article as reference for the bridge leading to the castle (on the left, in the picture).
> 
> About Ubbe’s Wolfpack: I know that’s just a fandom name, but come on. It fits. Berserkir are associated with bears, so why can’t an axe-and-shield warrior be associated with wolves? :D
> 
> Þákk means “thanks” in Old Norse.
> 
> Mínn means “my” in Old Norse.
> 
> Dýr means “precious”, “dear”, “expensive” in Old Norse. The word in the text is different becuase it's in the genitive case (to make it mean "my dear"). Does this chapter’s title make more sense now? ;)


	6. Indestructible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: explicit descriptions of Heahmund’s wound, religious trauma, mentions of (past) corporal punishment and the (physical, mental, and emotional) scars it left, mentions of sexual content.
> 
> Fair warning: the next chapter will contain explicit sexual content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWxBrI0g1kE) from Disturbed, because that’s the trend.
> 
> In this chapter, Heahmund wakes from convalescence to find himself wounded; strangely enough, the blunt force of his own religious trauma is nothing compared to the captivating presence of a certain boy general by his side.
> 
> For visual reference, the bedroom they are in is based on the picture [this website](https://www.loveproperty.com/gallerylist/67978/fairytale-castles-you-can-actually-buy) chose for a medieval castle in Savoie (Savoy), France. I couldn’t find any pictures of the medieval Castle of York, so I had to make do :/
> 
> I felt almost remorseful for last chapter's cliff-hanger, so here, have a freshly-edited slice of comfort to calm the hurt!

The first thing that Heahmund grows aware of is the unfamiliar texture beneath his prone body. It feels much less abrasive than the prison’s ground was under his knees, and much less stony than the streets of York. His hands feel heavy where they lay on the fabric. He cannot move a single finger. Regaining his consciousness has felt like entering or exiting a tunnel; gradual, unbalanced by reasons still unknown to his wounded mind.

When his body finally decides to respond to his mind’s commands, the first thing he does is open his eyes. He’s only marginally surprised to find soft blankets under his body; even softer furs cover him from the hips down. A certain kind of panic compels him to check the state of his clothes, just in case all those assessments that Christians have shared with him about the Heathens’ proclivities have turned out to be true.

He’s completely shirtless, sans for the wooden cross around his neck; it seems odd that its cord hasn’t been cut, for nobody in the Great Heathen Army could ever care about a religious symbol that’s not Thor’s Hammer. His thoughts dissolve upon finding that his trousers are still in place, which he’s grateful for, although they hang slightly lower on his lips than he’d ever wear them while standing up. Still, relief is a welcomed feeling, much as it makes a groan erupt from deep within his dry throat.

“Heahmund!”

His heart beats louder in his ears the second he recognises this voice, its foreign accent morphing his own name into a sweet word he would love to hear repeated over and over again, all the while admiring how these kissable lips shape each syllable.

“Ivar…” Heahmund fights to sit up on the bed, not liking how he’s so prone while the boy leans over his right side. Unbearable pain shoots up the opposite side of his body, coalescing at some undetermined point in between his hipbone and the rib just below his pectoral. A new groan escapes him before he can control his own voice; suddenly it’s as difficult to bear the pain in silence as it is to not scream his pleasure to the high winds. “What th–?”

“You fell.” Ivar pushes himself up on the bed; somehow, his voice remains steady throughout the move. Once Ivar is more comfortably seated on the side of the bed not currently occupied by Heahmund’s wounded body, Ivar turns his torso towards him. His usually sardonic expression is now clouded over by all the emotions the boy will never put into words; but Heahmund can clearly hear them sliding right into Ivar’s voice as he adds, “Someone attacked me and you were in the way, so you fell.”

Heahmund frowns, giving his body a moment for the pain to pass before trying to sit upright again. Ivar’s eyes flash with a different hue than the usual cobalt blue; he seems caught in between wanting to help Heahmund and keeping his hands to himself. In the end, it makes no tangible difference, for Heahmund manages to slither upwards until he can lean his back against the wooden headboard. Some muscles at his lower back protest its intricate woodwork, because it’s full of open spaces which make the material between them dig deeper into his bruised flesh. Heahmund suppresses a grimace when the wound at his side screams loudly – God, he thinks as he corrects his posture so it stops shouting at him, for how long has he been unconscious…?

Ivar’s gaze goes from Heahmund’s face to his naked chest, bypassing the cross in favour of focusing on the slight valley in between his pectorals. Heahmund simply looks at Ivar, for once feeling too tired, too sinful, to even call the boy out on his close inspection of another man’s body. He notices how Ivar’s fingers flex as if on sheer reflex, clinging to the furs covering the mattress like they are the only thing keeping the boy afloat. Once again, Heahmund decides against mentioning it out loud; Ivar seems incredibly on edge right now. Disturbing him further would be just like provoking a beast, like poking a bear with a stick and hoping it will not lash out with blind rage.

“Where are we?” Heahmund asks instead, his voice coming out much raspier and deeper than he’d intended. Ivar visibly shivers; only then does Heahmund realise the boy is wearing only simple trousers and a deep-blue undershirt. Even his hair is loose; it falls around his shoulders in a thick, dark mane, framing his face quite nicely.

“My room, in the Castle of York.” Ivar says in English, looking into Heahmund’s eyes as if waiting to be corrected.

Heahmund nods his head slightly, letting the boy know the sentence was fully correct. Ivar smiles; but it is an empty gesture, because the warmth he tries to portray does not reach his eyes. Heahmund sighs as heavily as he physically can without disturbing his wound, gathers his courage before looking down at himself.

It… does not look good. There is a deep gash on his side, going around his body as if the weapon had caught him mid-twirl. Such an explanation would’ve made sense, but Heahmund can still remember that he’d already ended the Saxon Commander and his soldiers at the stone bridge leading to the Castle before pain hit him so. He cannot recall every single movement he made during that battle, though; he supposes it’s possible he’d been wounded during it, and his own lust rendered him unable to feel it until afterwards. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened to him, either. A very sharp blade can cut clean and painless; though Heahmund is much more used to seeing all his enemies fall from wounds they’d never even realised were there.

Gently, because he’s been wounded more times than he can count and so knows how the bloody song goes, Heahmund brings his right hand to the rightmost edges of the wound and presses down on his own skin. At any other time, it would’ve simply gone white for some seconds; now, however, it doesn’t change at all. At least it’s not bleeding anew, nor infected. Both of those show that some care has been done. It’s already more than he’d ever waged he would get while surrounded by these godless Heathens. Still, it could be better; he can plainly see that the healers made a very glaring oversight.

“Why is it not dressed yet?”

“Dressed?” Ivar’s voice is full of confusion, much as those impossibly blue eyes, “Why do you want clothes? They cling to wounds!”

“No, in this case “dressed” means “cleaned and covered”.”

“Oh.” Ivar stares to the murky red gathered on the edges of Heahmund’s side, his gaze darkening enough to serve as a warning. Heahmund frowns, unsure of how he should read such a look when coming from so bloodthirsty a boy. “I… why didn’t you move?! Why did you just take the hit?!”

Heahmund’s head pounds in time with Ivar’s screaming in Old Norse; still, there is something in the boy’s quivering tone that prevents him from forcing him to shut up. So much for admitting that Heahmund’s wounded state is a product of Ivar being a prime target for all Saxons… then again, he muses as his heartbeat goes away from his temples and returns to its rightful place inside his chest, Ivar is too proud to ever admit he’s wrong. As far as Heahmund can remember, this haughty boy has never apologised once; he’s never even conceded he used the wrong strategy or made an incorrect move at _Hnefatafl_. It makes perfect sense, then, that he won’t repent for having caused more serious damage.

“I didn’t see it coming.” Heahmund’s voice is so low in both tone and volume that another little shiver runs through Ivar’s body. Heahmund suppresses the urge to cock his head to one side just enough so that Ivar could read that he’s caught his shiver; it’s best to give no indication that he’s seen it. His blood simmers at all the possible implications behind Ivar’s acute reactions to his lowest, most growly register. “I assume you took them down after I fell?”

“No.”

Heahmund’s gaze jumps from his own wound to Ivar’s eyes, staring into him hard and unforgiving.

“He hurt you, I killed him, and _then_ you fell.”

Despite his better judgement, Heahmund cannot help but smile at Ivar’s boasting. It’s a biting smirk, too; all teeth and danger. Ivar reacts painfully clearly, preening under Heahmund’s intense stare like a colourful bird during its mating dance. Their gazes meet and Heahmund only smirks wider, wavering on the verge of chuckling at the admiration shining crystal-clear inside Ivar’s blue eyes. His mouth is half-opened too, almost as if he expects to be kissed any time soon.

Before Heahmund can stop himself or think better of it, he reaches out and runs a hand over Ivar’s hair, his fingertips caressing from the roots at his forehead; then down, to hold him by the nape, Ivar’s hair merely a soft cascade on his naked skin.

“ _U-uhh_ …”

“Seems to me that _you_ are the one who needs a “gift” today, Ivar.”

“ _Uh_ , s-shut up!”

Heahmund lets out the chuckle he’d been dying to contain when a blushing Ivar breaks the contact, ever the stubborn brat. He observes as the boy slithers off the bed and crawls on the floor to the opposite side of the room, where a table rests against the wall. From his higher position, Heahmund can see there are two metallic candle-holders atop it. Neither is lighted up, though; there’s still enough light coming in from the window on the far wall at his right. Ivar’s shadow flickers on the wooden floor when a cloud obscures the sun; it reappears elongated enough to lick at the foot of the closed door across from the window.

Ivar grabs something that was resting in between the candle-holders. Heahmund’s vision is so blocked by the boy’s broad shoulders that he cannot make out what it is. No harm done, for he will know in due time, he supposes as he looks from Ivar to the wooden beams on the ceiling above his own head. The boy seemed so reluctant to leave the bed earlier that he’ll most likely crawl his way back as soon as he manages to stop blushing.

O, but how good it feels to know he can render this proud Heathen a blushing heap atop his own bed…

“Why did you bring me here, Ivar?” The chuckles and smiles are gone from his voice; Heahmund lets only cold professionalism accentuate his words. Traces of an accent that decidedly hails not from fair England slips into his intonation, just like it always does when he doesn’t consciously watch himself closely, “Why didn’t you throw me back into a prison and had a _thrall_ dress this wound?”

Ivar curses some quick and guttural lines in Old Norse that Heahmund doesn’t catch entirely; something about Odin and Hell, or perhaps Goddess Hel. When a still-cursing Ivar reappears in his peripheral vision, it’s to throw a piece of pristine-white cloth onto the furs; then, he crawls onto the bed and moves closer to Heahmund.

The Bishop has barely enough time to take air before Ivar stretches his upper body over Heahmund’s lap, trying to reach something on the bedside table while still keeping his legs on the farthest point from it. Heahmund rises both his arms to give the boy more space, guessing that if he were to offer his aid without Ivar having asked him for it, he’d receive only more dark curses and scathing retorts. It’s best to simply let the boy do things himself, or order Heahmund to do it for him if he truly cannot reach.

“Give me that basin. And don’t spill water on the bed!”

Clear as the order is, Heahmund still waits until Ivar moves off his lap; only then does Heahmund try to take the basin with his left hand, since it’s closer to the bedside table.

An acute pain forces him to stop mid-motion.

Heahmund groans from deep within his throat, feeling his wound burn from being disturbed and from the searing heat of Ivar’s bloodlust focusing on it. He tries his best to ignore the boy’s hunger as he turns his body just enough to take the full basin with his right hand, silent more by choice than by design.

Bringing it closer to Ivar without spilling a single drop soon proves to be quite the challenge; Heahmund’s usually steady pulse trembles wildly now. He blames it fully on his wounded body, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge how Ivar’s lips part when the effort of keeping the basin horizontal strains Heahmund’s biceps, making them bulge a bit more than usual.

“ _Þakka fyrir_.” Ivar mutters his thanks in Old Norse, his tone reverential despite it being naught but a rasp. Heahmund doesn’t fail to notice the boy is intentionally keeping himself close enough to always have at least one body part brushing against Heahmund’s own body. The most insatiable parts of his lust send heat down his front, distracting him from the fact that Ivar has switched languages as he adds, “Now come here and do _not_ move.”

“You did not answer me.” Heahmund pressures him; a new groan leaves him when Ivar gathers water into his hands and pours it over the wound. For someone who didn’t want to have a wettened bed from spilt water, he sure is being liberal with it now… “Why am I here, in your bedroom?”

“Because I said so.”

“Why did you say so?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Why did you want to?”

“Because…” Heahmund notices the brief pause Ivar makes, even though the boy does his best to hide it, “… part of my Army wants you well now. Some even say a _Drengr_ saved me.”

“I am no such thing.”

“Bishop, _please_. Do you even know what it is?”

Heahmund presses his lips tightly together, refusing to give Ivar the satisfaction of having him admit he doesn’t know. Heahmund supposes he could lie his way out, too; he’s certainly done similar things at multiple times in his past. There are more than a handful of scars in his body that came from having his lies found out, though. As if on cue, phantom pains arise from multiple points at his outer thighs and knuckles. Heahmund tries to suppress a shiver as he wills them all away.

“Am I hurting you?”

“ _No_.”

Ivar raises his gaze to Heahmund’s face like he’s ready to argue, for the Bishop _did_ growl his answer. The boy’s hands still where they rest on either side of the wound, which pulsates in time with Heahmund’s heartbeat. He can feel a faint headache coming on, probably from having lost blood without drinking or eating anything to make up for it. He does his best to focus on something else instead, lest it provokes more pain to slide right through his psyche.

Ivar’s hands are warm where they rest on his skin, though some of the sensation he’d usually receive is lost at the areas closest to the wound. The water feels cooler, even though the boy has started to let it heat up slightly on his palm before letting it wash over Heahmund’s skin. The effect is welcomed, much as it means that most of the water simply slides in between Ivar’s fingers and onto the soft blankets below Heahmund’s body. It’s a sheer miracle that his trousers aren’t completely wet by now; Heahmund doesn’t wish to hear any teases from Ivar if the fabric clung tighter to his crotch, marking the outline of the cock that has made maidens and knights alike scream.

Ivar seems oblivious to his struggles; he simply waits in complete silence while Heahmund gathers his fleeting thoughts. Shaping them into coherence proves to be harder than he’d foreseen, though; Heahmund can only grasp at the tail-ends of the ideas related to the war he’d been wounded in. Other thoughts are skittish like small animals; they give him heated words and lusted images and disappear before he can catch them by the scruff of their neck and force them to repeat those whispers at a louder volume instead.

The mental hunting exhausts him in and out. Ivar’s gaze hasn’t stopped flickering from Heahmund’s eyes to his lips, then down the curve of his shoulders and chest; it goes back to Heahmund’s eyes whenever a small groan leaves the Bishop’s lips. The boy’s hands remain still on his heated skin. If Heahmund’s fleeting thoughts were less devious, he’d chuckle at how it almost looks like Ivar is embracing him from the side.

As it is, though, all he can do is sigh in thinly-veiled gratitude at the reprieve Ivar is granting him. Heahmund’s torso heaves as he fights to keep his breathing under control. The slight weight of the wooden cross on the indeterminate space between his chest and abdomen is familiar, and welcomed due to it – and yet it feels damning to wear it after having consciously killed good, God-fearing men in the battle he was forced to fight on the Heathens’ side…

“Bishop…”

The title is like a slap to the face; he can only laugh bitterly at it, unable to meet those insanely, beautifully, blue eyes staring into him.

“… Heahmund.”

His laugh dies on his lips. His gaze focuses on Ivar’s hands. They’re moving again, gentle and warm. Ivar’s long fingers are calloused from wielding axes and swords on a daily basis; Heahmund can feel every little detail, every little imperfection on them. The boy’s knuckles are especially prominent; it reminds Heahmund of the marks he’s seen in other men when they punched something too hard and broke their fingers. Ivar’s own do not look so crooked, though. Old wounds, most likely, long since healed and scarred. He knows better than to interrogate Ivar about them; if he’s learnt anything from the terrible, spilt ink that sometimes seeps into the white parts of Ivar’s eyes, it’s that he doesn’t take kindly to anybody bringing his physical brittleness up.

Ivar’s fingers are coated in crimson red up to those marked knuckles by the time he deems he’s thoroughly cleaned the wound. His knees dig into Heahmund’s thigh when he leans even closer than he did while splashing water on the wound’s edges, now with the white cloth in his hands. Heahmund can only let his body ebb and sway from side to side, following the rhythm marked by Ivar as he wraps the cloth around his middle. His loose hair meets Heahmund’s naked shoulder and the upper parts of his arm in the softest caress his wicked flesh has ever experienced.

The wooden cross hanging from the Bishop’s neck quickly gets in Ivar’s way and makes him growl his Norse protests. It amuses Heahmund to see Ivar glaring, but without touching it at all.

“Fuck’s sake…” Heahmund’s laugh is more a mere shake of his shoulders and a tiny smile than a true laugh, because it pulls at his side and brings him pain; not to mention that it would undo some of the progress Ivar has made about dressing it properly. He goes to hold the cross, aiming towards raising it at neck-level so that Ivar can work undisturbed.

Piercing pains start from the tips of his fingers which brushed against the wood and spread throughout his whole hand.

Ghosts of past perils whisper and swirl around him.

Every scar on his body hurts.

He cannot think.

He doesn’t know if he moans or growls, hands scrambling at his neck.

The next thing he becomes aware of is a release of pressure. The cross falls onto the furs covering his lap; if they weren’t there, it would’ve ended up in between his parted thighs. The leather cord he used to secure it around his neck is still attached to the cross, but severed. Heahmund slowly turns his head to glance at Ivar’s hand, in which a dagger’s blade catches the sunlight just enough to shine as pristinely white as the cloth was before it touched his bloodied wound.

Ivar shows no remorse on his face, the only emotion Heahmund can read off him is pride.

A heartbeat passes between them, punctuated by Heahmund’s gasps for air. Ivar cocks his head to one side, his hair falling around his right shoulder in a dark cascade that almost threatens to cover half his face. Heahmund reaches out without thinking, his mind frail and frayed. Ivar moves with him, tilting his head backwards to follow the motion. It exposes the solid column of his neck; Heahmund can see it work when Ivar swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, yet barely marked enough to have its side shadowed from the sideways light. Ivar’s pulse jumps underneath his warm skin when Heahmund’s fingers find it, his short nails teasing at the damage he could do if he felt like it.

Ivar simply centres his gaze on Heahmund’s own. His head’s thrown back enough that his eyes are hooded as he stares, lips still half-parted from the tiny gasps and whines he’s been exhaling while Heahmund caressed his hair and neck. It is maddening to know he hasn’t been able to focus on any of those sweet sounds until now…

Heahmund knows he should remain on guard for as long as that sharp dagger stays clutched tightly in Ivar’s hand; especially because the boy’s posture betrays no fear at the implied threat that Heahmund’s fingers draw against the pulse-point at Ivar’s neck. He wouldn’t put it past this boy to fake being calm and collected while he awaits the perfect opportunity to strike; a characteristic move for this strategic boy, and so similar to the one he pulled on Heahmund the first time they met across a rainy battlefield. What’s more, Heahmund still remembers exactly how proud and regal Ivar had looked in their last battle, on the ground in front of the Saxon Commander.

And yet, Heahmund quickly finds out that he cannot conjure any his defences up. He feels weakened beyond the physical sense of the word. His fingers stop their prodding at the boy’s neck.

Ivar, far from being deterred by Heahmund’s touch faltering, simply hums a low note, much like those dulcet tones he lets out whenever Heahmund caresses his hair. The question of whether Ivar reacts so acutely every time because he’s gone untouched for so long, or because he simply loves it so, returns to Heahmund’s mind.

“Why’d you stop?” Ivar questions him in Old Norse; his tone undulates up and down like a sheet left to air outside on a windy day. He would’ve sounded like a whiny child if his pronunciation had been any less guttural. Heahmund takes it as a little detail betraying how on edge Ivar is right now, and not like the growled threat it probably was intended as.

“Ask me nicely and I will carry on doing it.”

Ivar downright _growls_ at Heahmund pushing back; his head rolls forward until his hair falls down his front to obscure Heahmund’s vision of his handsome face. It is quite the dramatic gesture; and yet it still feels perfectly in character for this boy. Ivar is quite fond of theatrics, as Heahmund could attest to from the very moment they met; Ivar had played right into the demonic image that the Saxons in that battle had of Heathens, all the while looking like he’d been thoroughly enjoying messing with their Christian heads.

“Heahmund…” His skin breaks out in goosebumps upon hearing Ivar pronounce his name with so many hidden intentions lurking right underneath his skin. Perhaps it is only due to how Ivar prefers to use his holy title instead of his first name, or because he’s already more used to being referred to as “Christian” by the Pagans in the Great Heathen Army; Heahmund cannot pinpoint exactly why his breathing falters for a fatidic moment. “… I still have your life in my hands. You should be nice to me.”

“A threat does _not_ make me more inclined to help you.”

“You’ve already helped me.”

As if there was any doubt about what Ivar was referring to, his gaze falls to the newly-dressed wound at Heahmund’s left side. The bandages aren’t as pristine-white anymore, even though it didn’t start bleeding anew while Ivar’s fingers prodded at tis edges to clean it properly. A small favour from God, Heahmund thinks – the sole mention of Him makes his insides want to crawl out of his body through his flesh and bone.

“Are you cold? You’re trembling.”

Damn the boy’s watchful eye and incredible perception, Heahmund curses in the privacy granted by his own mind. He wishes he had a biting retort to shush Ivar with; but everything he can think about is how his instructors in both War and Scripture would’ve punished him for daring to refuse to wear a cross around his neck. Their stern words and sterner expressions appear in his mind’s eye as fresh as if he’d just seen them appear at the bed’s foot-end.

“I’m alright, Ivar. It’s quite better now that the wounds properly dressed.” It takes him more energy than he’d expected to speak without trembling; he tries to mask it by pronouncing the boy’s name deliberately purposeful and slow. If Ivar’s past tendencies are any indication, chances are he’ll focus on it, instead of in Heahmund’s natural accent, which has once again infiltrated his intonation without even consulting him first.

“You don’t sound Saxon. Why don’t you sound Saxon?”

So much for trying to rein his accent back, Heahmund realises perhaps belatedly as he turns his head away from Ivar’s frowning, inquisitive expression. The boy’s lips are half-parted once more; it’s almost impossible to not focus on how well-formed they are, and on how delicious they must feel to bite into.

“I was born elsewhere.” Heahmund’s left hand goes to his opposite forearm, his fingertips resting right on the jagged edge of a broad, white scar. It throbs with phantom pain, insistent to the point of taking him away from his own body until his voice sounds foreign and distant to his own ears, “Raised and trained in England, but not born here.”

“Then where? You’re not a Dane… are you?” Ivar’s soft voice is coloured by the sweetest explosion of confusion Heahmund has ever heard from anyone; he suspects he will never hear anything like this from any other person, Saxon or Norse. “Are you?!”

Heahmund takes a moment to answer; he uses the pause to decide if he’s going to try and reign his accent back in, or if he simply doesn’t care about it now that Ivar has already heard how different it sounds.

“I was born in Ireland.” Heahmund admits, his accent colouring his every syllable more musically than England’s own. At the same time, he tries to focus his blurred gaze on Ivar’s face. He swears he can see his own ghosts dance around the boy’s head for the moment it takes Ivar to react; but when the boy moves closer to him, the ghosts disappear into thin air, as though they were never there to begin with. “Don’t ask me about it. I don’t remember much of Ireland, I was too young when they brought me to England to be raised and trained. I simply… retained the Irish accent. Much as they wished I didn’t.”

“… you didn’t choose to be a warrior?” Heahmund is secretly quite grateful that Ivar chose the English word instead of outright calling him a _Vikingr;_ he’s not sure how he’d reacted to it in his current, convolute state. “Or a bishop?”

“I didn’t choose neither, no.”

Ivar spurts some incoherent sounds, as though he’s starting a lot of sentences but only getting to the first syllable of the first word every single time. It’s hard to discern if he’s even trying to speak in English anymore; it’s very possible for surprise or amusement to have thrown him back into Old Norse. In the end, Ivar settles for groaning and shaking his head until his hair flies around him, wild and loose; a perfect metaphor for the boy’s attitude in battle. When he stares into Heahmund’s eyes, the bewildered innocence in his eyes fiercely contrasts his frown.

Ivar cocks his head to one side and opens his mouth wide, like he does when about to ask something uncomfortably personal about Heahmund. He braces himself as best as he can, dreading the imminent question, his heart beating loud and heavy against his temples at the possibility of having already revealed too much of his own past to Ivar.

And then, Ivar impresses him anew.

Heahmund desperately wants to find it within himself to chastise Ivar for throwing the wooden cross, still attached to its cord, all across the room and onto the table with the two candle-holders; alas, not a single word can leave him when Ivar looks at him again, all determination and fire in spite of how cold-blooded he can be when he needs to. There was something decidedly rebellious, yet endearing, at how Ivar had taken the cross from Heahmund’s lap with only his fingertips, as if its touch burnt his skin.

The concept of Heathen flesh being hurt by a Christian’s holy symbol feels very appropriate – Heahmund’s mind reels as wildly as his physical body, because having Ivar mindlessly reaching between his legs has _also_ felt appropriate.

“It hurt you. _They_ hurt you. _Níðhöggr_ find them before I do.”

It takes Heahmund a moment to realise Ivar spoke, or rather _growled_ , all of that in Old Norse, which has made the threat sound even more brutal. His limited knowledge of Norse religion prevents from instantly recognising the figure Ivar has named, though; and asking is out of the question for as long as Ivar’s eyes contain flashing storms.

“Are you my protector now?” Heahmund manages to ask in Old Norse after many inner trials and tribulations; the words eluded him so much that he’s had to use synonyms instead. The sole notion of this boy protecting him seems ridiculous too; Heahmund’s well-trained in combat, has more experience in it than Ivar can even think of having one day – and yet…

“You need me.” Ivar’s gaze is just as steady as his tone. Whatever innocence was present in him before has gone away, leaving only steel-hard resolve in its wake. “You’re hurt now, you need to heal. And you’re _mine_!”

Heahmund cannot help but chuckle low and dark at how possessively Ivar has said that last sentence. Somehow, the boy’s stubbornness never fails to bring a wide smile to his face, however sardonic it might be at times. Ivar’s gaze wavers between Heahmund’s eyes and his lips; it’s easy to notice his turmoil while they’re still so close to one another. It would be almost too easy to lean towards him, invading his personal space to deposit a kiss upon those kissable, biteable, lips.

Heahmund has never considered himself cowardly, but right now he feels like the biggest coward who has ever existed or will ever exist.

“Am I still your prisoner after shedding my blood for you?” He whispers instead of letting the rising hunger within take hold of his body, of his mind. When he raises his gaze from Ivar’s lips, he’s not surprised to see the boy still staring at his own mouth as if appraising how he forms his syllables, gawking at the shape of his mouth like it holds the secret to his natural accent.

“You won’t fight for me anymore if I free you.”

Heahmund frowns, though not at the fact that Ivar intonated his sentence like it is an obvious statement, and not something he wants to confirm; he simply finds it curious that Ivar sounds… irascible. Irritated. As if he wished reality were the opposite of what he said. There is something deeply uncomfortable about how Ivar takes all important decisions on his own, Heahmund decides; and he for once doesn’t like not being included.

But at the same time, Heahmund cannot remain mad for long, because Ivar looks strangely vulnerable now. Not exactly innocent; just… _young_ ; inexperienced, even. This must be as uncertain a territory as it is for Heahmund. It feels good to know he’s not alone while navigating these turbulent waters, even though neither has yet dared to address any of it out loud.

“See? You need to be my prisoner.” Ivar adds; he’s probably taken Heahmund’s silence to mean something the Bishop didn’t intend for it to mean. Ivar’s smile doesn’t reach his beautiful eyes. Another little thing Heahmund doesn’t like at all. “You will stay in my room until you’re fully healed. If I leave you with the _thralls_ , they will let you die.”

“I’m not going to die from a scratch like this.”

Ivar has the audacity to _laugh_ at Heahmund’s haughty words. This time, his smile is genuine; and that is the sole reason why Heahmund’s pride doesn’t feel wounded. This boy delights in having him tease and bite back, that much is clear.

“Oh, _Heahmund_ …”

His heart misses a beat at how Ivar pronounced his name. The boy seems hellbent on not addressing him by any other holy title or mocking moniker, too; Heahmund is still unsure of how that knowledge makes him feel. His chest tightens when Ivar’s gaze falls to the centre of his torso, more or less at the same height at which the wooden cross would usually rest. It serves as a twisted reminder of his weakness, of the slight he’s committing in front of God and Men alike by not wearing the only symbol making him stand out from these Heathen hordes.

“You look much better like this.”

Heahmund wonders if what he’s feeling upon having Ivar break him out of his thoughts is gratitude, annoyance, or an incredibly confusing mixture of both. At any rate, he can confidently declare he’s got no idea what the boy is alluding to; surely Ivar can’t be referring to his newfound lack of a cross, because he’s never looked like he particularly minds Heahmund’s insistence of wearing it.

“… wounded?”

Ivar’s eyes twinkle with more dark sins than Heahmund would be able to count nor repent for, even if he lived for a thousand million years. His smirk is a predatory curve illuminating his factions with the dangerous white of his fangs. Heahmund’s muscles coil tightly, ready to pounce – ready to show this entranced boy that he’s not the only predator in the room.

“Naked in my bed.”

The only thing holding Heahmund back from staking his dark claim is the loud screams of his wound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I love Irish accents so much! I need Heahmund to have one, and not just because of the actor who played him in the series! Besides, canon doesn’t say where he was born (it doesn’t say anything of his backstory, to be honest), so it’s all free real state, babeyy!
> 
> “Þakka fyrir” means “thank you” in (modern) Icelandic; since this is the closest (modern) language to Old Norse and I couldn’t find an exact translation anywhere, I used Icelandic here. Sorry!
> 
> Drengr is THE highest compliment for a Viking warrior; a Drengr has reckless courage and follows a code of fair play.
> 
> Níðhöggr is a dragon/serpent who gnaws at the root of Yggdrasill (world tree); he also chews the corpses of those guilty of murder, adultery, and oath-breaking (all those who Norse society considered the worst of the worst).


	7. Avarice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: explicit sexual content, praise kink, mentions of scars, religious trauma, mentions of (past) corporal punishment + (past) self-harm as penitence and the (physical) scars they left. From Ivar’s perspective, there’s somnophilia involved; from Heahmund’s, there isn’t. One line at the very end of the chapter mentions Past physical abuse (not sexual).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a [a song from Disturbed](url), and this time it kind of fits, because a character gets greedy! The lyrics still don’t fit, though.
> 
> In this (long) chapter, Heahmund has a nocturnal visit that lets him sin without having to feel guilty about it, for these caresses weren’t of his own choosing; still, every action is consensual, and every touch is welcomed by his body and soul.

The touch is gentle, soft enough to be described as naught but a caress. It starts at his collarbone and runs alongside it, going from the outermost point at the shoulder to the vulnerable hollow of his neck. Featherlight fingertips prod at it, their intentions still vague to Heahmund’s mostly-asleep mind. He keeps his eyes firmly closed as the caress ascends to his Adam’s apple, not wanting to provoke his nocturnal visitor into applying pressure around his neck.

Whoever is touching him seems to be downright fascinated with his flesh; those teasing fingers keep exploring at a leisurely pace, going to one side and pressing ever-so-delicately, as if in search of something. Heahmund doesn’t even need to wonder why, for his experience quickly tells him that this person is looking for his pulse-point. They’re taking their sweet time too, even though Heahmund can tell they could also speed their movements up quite a lot if they so desired.

When they find their mark, they linger for a moment, feeling the steady pumping of blood against the delicate skin of his neck. He’s tempted to swallow, although both his mouth and throat are dry, just to have a little more pressure against his flesh. Thankfully, those fingers soon grow bolder, continuing their path upwards until they catch the starting points of his beard.

Heahmund half-expects them to tug on his facial hair as though to wake him up as cruelly as possible; perhaps that’s why it surprises him so much to feel those exploring fingers deposit caress after caress on his face. They go up to touch his cheek, bypassing his closed lips entirely; Heahmund has to fight with his own instincts to convince himself that he doesn’t mind it as much as he truly does.

His breath catches in his throat when a featherlight touch runs over his cheekbone, so warm it sets his flesh aflame from the inside out. He wonders if this careful person will trace every single scar on his body with the same delicacy they have exhibited until now…

It is a heady thought, although also an intimidating one, for nobody has ever taken the time to run their hands all over him like this. Nobody has ever showed themselves interested in him for more than one night, nor for anything more than a fast fuck. Then again, Heahmund cannot think of anybody whom he’s ever wanted to keep for longer than a night, either. The risk was too high; the reward, too little. He _is_ a Bishop, after all; a man of the cloth who’s supposed to be devoted only to God.

Careful fingertips trace his lips. A much unholier name appears in his mind.

The bed shifts in time with whoever is touching him; Heahmund thinks he’s losing his mind when he hears a low hum that he thinks sounds just like the airiest register of the boy general’s voice. The wolf-furs’ comforting weight atop his torso disappears. This person – _Ivar_ …? – carefully makes sure Heahmund is lying face-up, his half-naked body fully exposed. The bed shifts again. Heahmund can feel their body-warmth seeping into him at the points where their thighs are pressed together. He guesses they’re either sitting down or kneeling on the mattress at his right. Curiously, it’s the same side he remembers Ivar claimed last night.

That line of thought brings forth the knowledge that his own sword leans sheathed against the bedside table at his left, mirroring Ivar’s axe at the other side of the bed. Even while wounded, it would be quite easy to retrieve his blade and overpower this shameless stranger, trapping them in between Heahmund’s own body and the mattress, sharp blade at their neck.

And yet, he thinks with more than a single shiver running down his spine, he will not do any of that for as long as these fingers remain so benevolent, so impossibly gentle.

When the touch returns to his neck, Heahmund fights the instinct to let it be known that he’s awake. If he’s reading the situation right, this person is only brave because they think he’s still asleep; they will most likely flee the moment he shows any signs of waking up.

This time, they don’t stop at his pulse-point or his Adam’s apple; instead, they go down past his collarbones, to the uppermost parts of his right pectoral. They play at the edges of a tiny scar crossing him diagonally, the blow having gone from shoulder to chest until he’d jumped out of the training-blade’s path. It’s one of the oldest scars marring his body; Heahmund remembers the cut had been just deep enough to leave a scar, but not so much it had required any special treatment to help it heal. He wonders if Ivar, if this stranger is even him, can see the faded white line in the room’s darkness, or if he’s merely feeling a difference in his skin’s texture under his fingertips.

The touch runs alongside the scar, drawing over it in the same direction he’d been cut in. The motion leads his visitor towards his sternum; it’s devoid of scars, although it’s been bruised more often than not due to his opponents hitting him there to stop him from breathing for a short while.

The bed shifts again; thankfully, its four wooden posts don’t produce any sound. Heahmund is still unsure if this bold stranger is Ivar, but if it isn’t, then the boy general must undoubtedly be nearby, watching all of this unfold in front of him. Heahmund knows he should be grateful that Ivar is letting him have all this without interrupting it; but all Seven Hells will freeze over before he’ll admit it out loud to him – God knows Ivar would gloat about it for months; never mind how absolutely _ravishing_ he would look while doing so…

“ _Fríðr_ …”

Heahmund’s stomach quivers at the kiss deposited on his sternum after the word has been whispered to the intimacy of their dark room. There is no doubt left; this bold visitor _is_ Ivar the Boneless, Prince-General of the Great Heathen Army. To think that he’s dared to not just touch, but also _kiss_ Warrior-Bishop Heahmund… this boy truly is sinful and blasphemous on equal measures. He’s naught but a handsome Devil in human skin, the most delicious of temptations Heahmund has ever succumbed to.

Those warm lips stay pressed to his skin; Heahmund feels Ivar shift until more of his body’s weight is leant directly on Heahmund’s unwounded side. The sudden change of pace makes Heahmund wonders if this was it; has Ivar already had his fill of scarred skin? Will he fall asleep now, lulled into deep dreams by the rapid beating of Heahmund’s heart?

“I know you’re asleep.” Ivar sounds softer than usual even in Old Norse; and his tone is a bit lower too. Sleep must be a heavy weight on his body and mind. “But you’re mine and I want to touch you.”

Usually, Heahmund would’ve immediately corrected him about not being neither asleep or Ivar’s; now, though, all he can think about is how entranced the boy seems to be. There is something about the night that makes mankind bold and avaricious, even if they should be fearful of unknown dangers lurking in the dark. Ivar, however, shows no fear as he turns his head to kiss Heahmund’s skin again, making him wonder if he was awakened by the boy’s touch or because his first sleep was naturally over. Either way, it does not matter; not when Ivar leans a hand on Heahmund’s hipbone, carefully going much lower than his bandages’ edge, to push himself up and off his chest.

Ivar’s hair must still be loose, because it trails over Heahmund’s skin in a fleeting caress. If he were a ticklish man, the light contact would’ve made him squirm quite a bit. The boy doesn’t bother sending it over his shoulder; he simply moves to lean his head on Heahmund’s right shoulder, lips almost level with the old scar he traced earlier. He hums a low note that wavers more due to his sleepy self than because Ivar intended it to not be stable.

Ivar’s right hand goes directly to the left side of Heahmund’s chest, his fingertips exploring the exposed flesh above the bandages’ edge. He follows the gentle curve of his pectoral almost reverently, although Heahmund can scarcely believe the gesture is born from jealousy; Ivar’s upper body is much more muscled than his own. If someone ought to be jealous, it’s Heahmund; and God knows that, in other time, he would’ve given many a thing to grow as broad as Ivar is now…

A specific kind of pain interrupts his thoughts and spreads through his pectoral. It concentrates around his nipple and grows more poignant when Ivar tugs on it again, only slightly rougher than Heahmund would’ve done it to another for the first time. He guesses it comes down to Ivar’s lack of practical experience; he’s more likely to not know how to keep his touches intentionally light when the only sex he seems to have ever had was fast-paced and brutally rough.

Ivar’s lips part against Heahmund’s neck as he rolls his nipple between his fingers. His breath is warm, although it makes Heahmund’s skin break out in goosebumps because his own body is even more heated. Hunger insists on pointing out exactly how long it has been since the last time he could indulge in carnal pleasure.

Heahmund suppresses a cold shiver at his own mental insinuation that he could, and most likely _will,_ have this with _Ivar_ of all people.

The boy’s hand moves to his ribcage, fingering the upper edges of the bandages like their sole presence disturbs him. Heahmund does his best to maintain the ruse, to let Ivar believe he’s still fast asleep. He still wishes he could simply open his eyes, ruffle the boy’s hair like he’s done several times by now, and move his arm from underneath Ivar’s body to tug him even closer to Heahmund’s own body.

Suddenly, Ivar’s fingers jump to his left shoulder, delicately finding the small and shallow indentations that penitent thorns have left on his sinful flesh. Ivar presses down on them one-by-one, gasping like he can see how Heahmund’s skin turns white under the pressure, scar tissue notwithstanding, even though the room must surely be too dark for that. He doesn’t hurt Heahmund even when he presses more firmly, drawing imaginary lines from one tiny mark to the next.

Ivar’s tongue comes out to lick at his lower lip like he does when concentrating hard on something; Heahmund faintly feels its tip on his skin when the boy licks at the commissure of his own lips. It seems unreal, intoxicating, that he can tell with millimetric precision that Ivar is thinking about what could’ve possibly left these indentations behind.

“Tell me one night.” Ivar murmurs into his ear; his Old Norse is more slurred than Heahmund has ever heard it sound like before. “Tell me who I have to kill…”

Heahmund’s heart almost skips a beat at the raw intentions that Ivar hasn’t even bothered trying to hide. He does his best to control himself, to not give away the fact that he’s ben awake for a while now.

Several heartbeats pass peacefully; then Ivar’s whole body tenses. A split second afterwards, his warm weight suddenly disappears from atop Heahmund’s own. He tries to not feel too disappointed about the abrupt loss of contact.

He fails.

A sinful mouth descends on his chest once again, though much more insistent this time around. Rather than the gentle kisses from before, now it seems to be made entirely of teeth. Heahmund bites down on the inside of his cheek to not groan in pleasure at how deliciously devilish Ivar’s mouth feels as he takes mouthful after mouthful of his flesh, leaving his skin marked from his teeth and damp from his saliva. Heahmund already dreads looking down at himself come morning; he knows he’s being claimed in secret by a Heathen boy who tomorrow will admire the marks from afar without revealing that he was the one who caused them all.

That thought makes Heahmund wonder what Ivar’s intentions truly are about this. More often than not, when someone marks their lover, it’s to stake their claim and boast about how they were the one to bite them so during sex. Ivar, however, won’t be able to brag about having had Heahmund in his bed without most people assuming Heahmund was the one who led their dance; although whether it’s due to his age or his more rugged appearance in comparison with Ivar’s is anybody’s guess.

Perhaps the boy intends to leave Heahmund confused, to make him think that he’s had the opportunity to indulge all of his most sexual appetites but slept through it all. He wouldn’t put it past Ivar to tantalise him in such a way; especially if the boy wants him to beg for another “gift” in the form of a willing _thrall_ with a warm body to bury himself into. Heahmund knows himself enough to know he’s not completely above begging, for he’s certainly begged God for both punishment and absolution a million times before, but begging Ivar is something he’s never done thus far. The idea of it, however, does not want to leave his mind – much like the images of Ivar’s blinding smile and innocent confusion.

O God forgive his sinning soul, for his mind’s eye can still see how tempting Ivar’s lips look like when they part just slightly, and how innocence and devilishness mix within his eyes until they shine from within with an impossibly blue light.

Heahmund presses his back into the mattress as hard as he can without making his wounded side scream in pain. Ivar seems oblivious to it; he just takes one of Heahmund’s nipples into his mouth and bites around it. The flat of his tongue runs a tantalizing circle over the new mark as if Ivar wants to savour his skin. Under any other circumstance, the thought of such a haughty boy treating Heahmund like this would be unthinkable; now, though, and perverse as it feels like, he must admit that it also feels… natural. Heahmund also likes it much more than he’s ever liked being at anybody’s mercy – it becomes a heady thought that travels directly to his crotch.

Almost as though imitating his own thoughts, Ivar’s mouth also travels lower, to the edges of Heahmund’s pectorals, and bites down hard there too. The angle is more forced, which prompts Ivar to drown a hollow groan against Heahmund’s by now quite reddened skin. Ivar has to abandon his self-indulgent exploring of Heahmund’s flesh for a moment to accommodate his own lower body better.

Heahmund’s mind reels when he realises that Ivar’s change of posture only makes sense if he intends to keep moving down.

One of the boy’s legs ends up on Heahmund’s other side; then, Ivar pushes himself up until he can fully straddle Heahmund’s thighs. It instantly becomes much, _much_ harder to keep pretending he’s asleep, but still he tries. It would not do to have Ivar realise he’s been awake all this time while atop him, because who knows how the boy could retaliate. He’d certainly use the opportunity to shame Heahmund for his ravenous appetites instead of admitting his own; if there’s anything that Heahmund has learnt about this irreverent Heathen, it’s that he’d rather accuse Heahmund of indulging him for the Bishop’s own, twisted benefit, than saying anything that might betray Ivar’s interest in the whole affair.

Heahmund tries to not pay attention to his own thoughts even as he feels lust stir further within his loins. He prays so that he won’t harden while Ivar is so focused on his sinful flesh; not because he thinks he’s anything but perfect in this department, but simply because he’s not sure whether he wants Ivar to look at him while Heahmund cannot see the boy’s every reaction to what he sees and feels.

He wonders, and not for the first time, if Ivar has feeling in his legs or if Destiny was extremely crueller with him than what was strictly necessary to knock his ego down a few pegs. Then again, Ivar is most likely so incredibly proud of his own achievements _because_ of how hard he must work for every one of them, not in spite of it. Heahmund can certainly feel the boy’s hips tremble astride his own thighs, untrained muscles trying to work to keep his body upright. Ivar ends up having to lean his hands on Heahmund’s shoulders to not topple over.

Somehow, Heahmund manages to drown another loud, frustrated groan before it can escape his closed lips.

His warrior’s instincts cannot help but feel proud of how stubbornly Ivar is trying to ride him, or at least to find the perfect angle to facilitate things and keep pressure out of his own lower body, not unlike what he does when he looks up at someone from his half-prone position on the ground. There is just so much to admire about this stunning boy that Heahmund can hardly believe he’s only realising its full extent now. He stays completely still, except for his chest expanding in time with his breathing, determined to either make things easier for Ivar, or at least to not get in his way.

“My handsome _Drengr_ …” Ivar’s voice is not so sleepy anymore, which makes Heahmund wonder if this, too, is a product of the lust he can feel coalescing in the room. A part of him wants to believe that Ivar will not go all the way now, because Heahmund’s legs aren’t even opened enough to allow for that kind of access; but the reality is that he simply doesn’t know what exactly Ivar is planning. The uncertainty is as arousing as it is terrifying. “How many people have seen you like this…?”

Heahmund doesn’t answer to Ivar’s whispered Old Norse in any other way than by fighting with himself to intentionally keep his breathing pattern steady. The boy seems to have found a comfortable position by now; his hips certainly don’t tremble as wildly as they did mere moments ago. Ivar’s short nails scrape him from shoulder to hip, though he lifts the hand on Heahmund’s injured side even before he reaches the starting edge of the bandages. His fingers reappear right underneath it, gently pressing on the thin stripe of skin in between the bandages and the hem of his trousers.

That brings Heahmund’s attention to the fact that their fabric still sits lower on his hips than he’d ever wear them outside of the privacy of his own bedroom. When Ivar’s fingers curve right around his hipbone, exposed more from how his trousers shifted in time with the boy’s climbing of him than by Heahmund’s own choice, a cold shiver runs down his spine. The touch is possessive to the extreme, even when Ivar is making sure he does not press hard enough to leave little, half-moon-shaped indentations on Heahmund’s skin. Considering what Heahmund’s seen so far of Ivar’s roughness in bed, such a delicate touch utterly captivates him.

From there, Ivar’s fingers jump directly to the front of Heahmund’s trousers, right where the treacherous lacing has come undone almost completely. Heahmund feels more than hears Ivar snickering; he instantly knows it’s because of how loose the knot must be. It has probably kept the form, but not any of the tension needed to tie it firmly closed, in turn keeping his trousers around the lowest edges of his hips only by sheer, dumb luck. Heahmund can feel how Ivar pulls on one strand; when whatever is left of the knot doesn’t come instantly undone, the boy doesn’t miss a beat before tugging on the other end.

The sound that leaves Ivar’s throat once the lace is rendered completely loose can only be describes as _needy_. Heahmund’s abdomen quivers; he hopes Ivar’s gaze was so focused lower still that he hasn’t caught such visible proof of Heahmund’s arousal. There is only so much he could ever hope to hide, though; Ivar wastes no time in taking him in his hand and out of the confines of his trousers.

Ivar is breathing heavier now, Heahmund can hear it clearly in the otherwise silent room. The rush of power leaves him lightheaded, because he knows perfectly well what has caused Ivar to practically gasp with every breath he lets go of.

For a terrifying moment, nothing happens. Heahmund can still hear Ivar breathing; but his own heartbeat is much louder in his ears. It makes him wonder whether Ivar can hear it too, as anatomically impossible as he knows that to be. The boy’s pretty head isn’t pressed tight against his chest anymore; at most, Ivar will feel his pulse somewhere lower.

When Ivar’s fingertips run featherlight up the side of Heahmund’s cock, it takes an incredible force of will to not moan out loud. The need to let out all the noises bubbling up within his throat only increases when Ivar reaches the sensitive part where shaft meets head. Heahmund lets his head roll to one side in an attempt to have the soft pillow pressed closer to his mouth, just in case he truly needs to muffle himself with anything other than by biting down on his tongue or on the inside of his cheeks. He would bite his lower lip, but that’d be too forward, too visible. Ivar would instantly notice he’s not asleep.

Ivar moans from somewhere above him. Heahmund’s thighs are already starting to go numb from supporting all of Ivar’s weight, but he doesn’t mind at all. It gives him something to focus on instead of in the delicate way Ivar is playing with him. Every touch the boy imparts on his flesh only serves to rile him further up, making him wish he could simply open his eyes and gently reverse their positions. Ivar would be physically more comfortable if lying on his back rather than when he’s on top like this; Heahmund can already picture the sweet confusion on the boy’s face upon realising that Heahmund is atop him instead.

Still, he does not move beyond the light tremors caused by Ivar’s prodding of his cockhead. He’s managed to keep the ruse up until now, so he should see it through to the very pleasurable end Ivar’s actions are foretelling right about now.

Ivar runs a single, calloused fingertip right over the slit at the top. Heahmund bites down on the inside of his cheek to not keen. He tastes the metallic twang of his own blood. He can only think about how much Ivar would love to taste it off his lips, off his tongue. As if on cue, Ivar moans when he cannot allow himself to.

Heahmund isn’t even sure when exactly he’s gotten so achingly hard. Maybe it happened while Ivar was being so rough with him, biting him all over his chest… it still feels incredible; each individual mark pulses and throbs in time with his sped-up heartbeat like they don’t want to fade into the hazy background of what Heahmund can physically feel. He wonders why Ivar hasn’t bitten at his neck yet; if the boy wished to let everybody know he’s claimed Heahmund so, he should’ve bitten him on visible places, not on those that will be covered by his clothes.

Could it be possible, then, that this fearless Prince-General feels shy about letting the world know of the great hunger overtaking him behind closed doors…?

Ivar’s fingertips are as shy as the boy himself seems to be. They barely dare move over his head, spreading Heahmund’s pre-come only so far before they shudder and return to the slit at the top. Ivar’s hips tremble too, the motion serving as a very torpid imitation of what he would have to do to properly ride Heahmund. That would be quite the privilege to bestow upon Ivar, for nobody has been allowed to ride Heahmund so in almost twenty years. He quickly found out that he prefers to be the one doing the work, simply because it lets him control everything much easier; and his preference hasn’t changed ever since.

Ivar, though… The mere thought of having him moaning loudly, leaning his whole body-weight on Heahmund’s shoulders and hips, and letting Heahmund help him ride his cock slow and deep…

Heahmund’s back arches. It’s the next best thing to screaming his pleasure into their quiet, dark room. Ivar gasps immediately after; only then does he grow brave enough to wrap a tentative hand around Heahmund’s shaft. The boy’s hold is so horribly loose that he can barely feel it in some places, although that is also the very same thing making it so endearing to endure. It seems that all of Heahmund’s past impressions of Ivar’s lack of experience were correct after all…

Heahmund bites back a growl when he finds himself once again wishing he could take full control and properly teach Ivar.

He’d start with kissing him, because Heahmund cannot wrap his head around the fact that Ivar hasn’t got people practically lining up for the chance of feeling those plump lips of his against their own. A nice, deep kiss… not brutal at first, even though Heahmund knows he wouldn’t be able to resist the dark temptation of biting at Ivar’s lower lip and pulling on it slightly to feel the reverberations of his moan. Ivar would bite him back too, making Heahmund groan into his mouth; and he’d undoubtedly be as loud as he wants to be right now.

Even when convinced that his lover is asleep, Ivar’s touch doesn’t grow insistent nor brutal; the complete opposite of what Heahmund had been expecting from him. Ivar seems perfectly happy with leisurely exploring his length, running his fingertips along the thick vein pulsating at one side. Heahmund squirms as much as he dares. Ivar’s fingers are warm, calloused from years of wielding his axe; they feel extraordinarily intense on his heated flesh. Every sensation is heightened, because Heahmund is intentionally not watching any of it as it unfolds.

When Ivar presses slightly firmer on that same vein, his hand retreats as though Heahmund’s cock has burnt him right down to the marrow.

Heahmund somehow manages to swallow down the growl that was lodged across his throat. He can still feel his own heartbeat pulsing wildly against the vein Ivar has just touched; instinctively, he knows it to be the reason why the boy took his hand away. Some of Ivar’s reactions still don’t make sense to Heahmund’s lust-addled mind, though; he’s fairly certain this boy has a cock of his own, one that is probably as gorgeous as the rest of him, and yet he’s almost afraid of touching Heahmund’s hard pride. There is a mystery there, one that Heahmund’s lust and curiosity alike would love to work on.

“ _Varmr_ …” Ivar’s voice is naught but a reverent, airy whisper. He sounds like he’s speaking to himself, voicing at least some of his thoughts so that they won’t eat him from the inside out. Oh, how Heahmund would love to– “Why are you so… warm…?”

He might not be able to answer in words, but he can still flex his core muscles to have his cock jump slightly. Ivar moans at the acute reaction. His hand returns a moment after; and this time his hold is tighter, although still looser than what Heahmund would’ve used to spread his own pre-come all over himself before entering a willing lover’s body. Ivar cautiously moves up and down, almost as if he fears breaking Heahmund if he’s not careful with him. His gentle hold doesn’t go by unappreciated, although Heahmund is in no position to let the boy know of it in words.

“You’re perfect.” Ivar must be pouting, judging from how he sounds. Heahmund’s eyelids flutter while he fights the urge to look at Ivar’s face. The boy’s Old Norse becomes an amalgamate of sounds in Heahmund’s mind; he must concentrate on each individual sentence long after Ivar’s finished speaking them to understand each word, “Did you know that you’re perfect all over? I knew you would be… you’re perfect everywhere else, so your cock must be perfect too…”

Said body-part throbs the moment Heahmund is done deciphering what Ivar just praised him for. Heahmund bites the tip of his tongue; he desperately wants to let this boy know that these compliments are nothing new to him, for dirty-talk is ripe even amongst the Anglo-Saxons’ sexual restraint – but God and Gods help him, every word takes on a completely different meaning when Ivar whispers them like this…

“I wish I knew more…” Heahmund’s heart breaks at the sheer disappointment and pain within Ivar’s voice; much as he wants to believe it’s just because he’s hard as a rock and in need of more friction, deep down he knows it’s not due to that. “But you wouldn’t do it for me, would you…? You’d just scoff and tell me to find a _thrall_.”

Heahmund is grateful that he knows his own body as well as he does, because it means he knows exactly how to roll his hips to meet Ivar’s hand without making it seem like he’s awoken. Ivar splutters some incoherent sounds; he gasps to try and hide that he’s just choked on whatever he was about to add. Slowly, he moves his hand up and down the length in front of him, although much more hesitant than Heahmund loves to see him.

Heahmund’s hips roll upwards, once again on their own accord; he intentionally restrains himself to not dislodge Ivar off his thighs. He’s lost all sensation in them for the time being. It’ll be quite painful to regain it once Ivar’s weight is lifted. For now, though, it’s perfect. He can keep Ivar astride him. That’s all that matters now.

“Do you like it like that…?” Ivar sounds just as breathless as Heahmund feels. His heart skips a whole beat when the boy’s palm surrounds his head on its way up. There’s not enough friction to finish Heahmund off, but this is infinitely better than the shy touch from before. “Good. I like it too…”

The scorching admission goes directly to Heahmund’s crotch. This time around, he is utterly unable to bite his voice back; he only manages to keep the sound rumbly and brief. Ivar’s sweet moan echoes his own growl. The boy leans his free hand on the centre of Heahmund’s chest, probably to be able to feel him growling the next time he does so.

Embarrassingly, even though Heahmund is perfectly at peace with how loud he is in bed, Ivar doesn’t have to wait for very long. It only takes a new sweep of his hand from root to tip and another gasped breath from Ivar to have Heahmund groaning again.

A very warm fire is spreading throughout his whole crotch. The heat concentrates in all the points Ivar is touching most often and lingers underneath Heahmund’s skin after the boy’s caress moves elsewhere. His body writhes and shivers uncontrollably, his spine arching every single time Ivar runs his fingers over the vein at the side, over the slit at the top. Heahmund knows he’s getting close, so close that he can almost taste the welcomed sweetness of his release.

He hopes Ivar will be adventurous enough to not immediately pull his hand away the moment Heahmund starts coming in steady spurts. So far, Ivar seems undaunted by how readily Heahmund is leaking all over his hand; whether it’s due to the boy liking to see him come undone or to some other secret delight taking place, Heahmund does not know. It’s impossible to think about it, too. Everything he can concentrate on has been reduced to the points of him that Ivar is touching – up and down, firm and steady, using his pre-come as the necessary lubrication to not rub Heahmund’s cock raw.

Heahmund fails to suppress a moan when Ivar’s fingers slide downwards over his frenulum. He’s always known this is one of the most sensitive parts of him; his head is too clouded by twisted desire to even think about how he feels about Ivar knowing about it now.

“ _Meirr_ …” Ivar echoes his moan with one of his own, practically mewling out the vowels from how much he’s stretched them. The sound lingers in Heahmund’s ears, plays over and over in his mind. “ _Meirr, Drengr mínn_ …”

Heahmund knows that Ivar’s voice will from now on be the one thing making him come instantly every time he remembers it.

Ivar’s sounds of surprise and pleasure alike hide Heahmund’s loud growl when he explodes over the boy’s hand. Somehow, it feels much more intense than it has ever felt like while prompted by another’s actions. Heahmund’s spine arches at an almost painful, very forced angle as he leaks rope after rope of translucid, warm white over Ivar’s hand. Some of it drips down his length, tainting his trousers’ fabric where it lays bunched up at his hips, keeping his balls still hidden from view.

Ivar’s voice straddles the edge between moaning and giggling. Heahmund settles back against the mattress, desperately trying to not give away the fact that his cock is still pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Some leftover droplets leak from his tip, falling directly onto his lower abdomen. It quivers when Ivar’s fingers tease at his slit. Heahmund feels tingly and oversensitive all over – O God, what has become of his stamina…? He used to be able to go multiple rounds before having to call it a night; and yet here he lays under a Heathen’s warm, comforting body, all spent and marked and–

“Perfect…”

To Heahmund’s delight, Ivar sounds completely fired up, and more than ready to let all reason go. The only detail betraying that Ivar’s body doesn’t always agree with his mind is that Heahmund cannot feel an erection on the boy’s body. Selfish as he has always been in bed, his pride is wounded; he’s never had any partner protest because they didn’t get to come too, much as he’d been focusing on his own desire instead of theirs. The idea that Ivar could be the first to break the trend is extremely annoying. At the same time, though, it feels so perfectly in character that Heahmund cannot stay mad for very long.

Another thing that feels perfectly in character for Ivar is how he doesn’t bother redressing Heahmund nor cleaning up the cooling mess he’s left on his lower abdomen. Ivar simply scurries away so that he’s no longer straddling Heahmund, whose thighs shout with both relief and acute pain. It’s downright impossible to remain silent when Ivar leans down as far as his limited mobility allows him to.

A quivering sound that suspiciously resembles a moan escapes from in between Heahmund’s parted lips when Ivar kisses his chest, right over his heart.

Ivar’s weight settles at his side, shamelessly arranging Heahmund’s arm so it lays underneath his neck, supporting it. Heahmund is glad this boy chose his uninjured side to cuddle up against, although this behaviour seems incongruent with everything he knows about Ivar’s cold and proud demeanour. Ivar accommodates his lower body until it lays parallel to Heahmund’s thigh; he’s not so sure how well this will work, for Ivar is slightly taller than him, but it feels _right_. As if the boy had been made to fit against his side like this, all warmth and passion when his lips find the pulse-point at Heahmund’s neck again.

Heahmund braces himself for being roughly bitten again. He’s still got the ghost of his own blood’s aftertaste on his tongue; he loves those metallic notes enough to know it’d be hypocritical of him to call Ivar out on his own enjoyment of Heahmund’s blood, were the boy about to mark him anew.

Curiously, Ivar doesn’t bite him; he simply rests those full lips of his on his heated, sweat-damp skin. Heahmund reacts right away, as evidenced by his heartbeat faltering. Ivar hums a low note, his volume so low that it sounds much more like he’s whining than moaning. Heahmund’s afterglow intensifies, although it’s been enough time already since he came that he should be able to work himself back up if he so desired. Ivar turns more fully towards him, leans his right hand on Heahmund’s other shoulder. It curls as if it was grasping at an imaginary cloth, bringing Heahmund’s diffused attention to how Ivar is now trembling all over.

It’s impossible to know if the boy is feeling regret or if he’s just desperate for the same kind of release he was able to grant Heahmund. His frustration is made evident by how he gasps, trying to force his body to calm down by sheer strength of will alone. Much as Heahmund is loath to let Ivar know he’s awake, lest it contributes to increase the boy’s inner turmoil, he finds it incredibly painful to witness without acting on his own urges.

Ivar murmurs something against his neck, so incoherent and quiet that Heahmund doesn’t even recognise which language he spoke in. It was most likely Old Norse, though; Ivar tends to revert to his mother tongue whenever his steel-nerves are frayed. It mirrors Heahmund’s own habit of going back to speaking English with his natural Irish accent when he’s too exhausted to maintain the one that was quite literally beaten into him when he was brought into England’s shores.

That line of thought makes Heahmund shiver. Ivar immediately burrows closer to him, as if he wants to warm him up with his own body-heat instead of taking the much more logical approach of simply putting Heahmund’s spent cock back into his trousers and throwing the furs back over both their bodies.

This time, Ivar does bite him, but the grit of his teeth and the touch of his lips are so soft that Heahmund would only describe it as “nibbling”.

It doesn’t take Ivar very long to fall asleep, curled in Heahmund’s arms. He thinks it’s impressive how the boy could go from desperate to come to fast asleep in a matter of minutes without getting so frustrated with his body’s lack of cooperation that it causes insomnia. Heahmund waits more than he deems strictly necessary, just to make sure Ivar is truly asleep; then, he chances a glance down their joined bodies.

His own half-nakedness contrasts quite nicely with Ivar’s fully-clothed body; and yet Heahmund wouldn’t admit such a thing out loud even if it would save his life. There is a strange kind of controlled vulnerability in knowing he will fall asleep now and wake up tomorrow morning still covered in his own dried come and completely exposed to the boy’s greedy gaze.

In his mind, Heahmund conjures some chosen phrases that Ivar might use to tease him about this whole incident; if it can even be called so when it’s so dangerously obvious that both Ivar and Heahmund himself have enjoyed the tryst immensely – God, how he’d love to return the favour and let Ivar enjoy the spectacular release that his body seems hellbent on denying him… Heahmund’s experience knows first-hand that there are many ways to make him come without his cock having to be aching and hard.

He wonders how loud Ivar would moan at some of them; especially if he were lying down on his back with Heahmund hovering over him, pleasuring him for as long as it’d take to leave him emotionally satiated, physically well-spent…

His cock gives a curious twitch at this line of thought. Heahmund takes it as his cue to drop it; it wouldn’t do to have to either will an erection away or risk masturbating with Ivar lying asleep half on top of him. He can always find somebody else to fuck come morning, or hint at Ivar that he knows what happened tonight and that he’d quite like for “another _thrall_ ” to visit him again. The possibilities seem endless; especially if Ivar takes it upon himself to tease Heahmund first.

Speaking of Ivar, Heahmund thinks as he looks down at the sleeping beauty’s face. His breathing has been steady for a while now, and he’s become a solid weight keeping Heahmund trapped against the bed. The boy’s body is warmer than his own, too; though Heahmund doesn’t know if it’s because Norse blood runs hotter or because his own skin is still damp from his sweat. In a way, Ivar is warming him up in much the same way any well-kept hearth would; only he’s much more silent than a crackling fire would be.

Heahmund keeps his motions slow and steady as he reaches for the furs that Ivar displaced even before he’d woken Heahmund up by touching him so brazenly. One-armed as the boy has rendered him, he still manages to cover them both, though he intentionally leaves his clothes untouched. If Ivar wishes to look at his chest and cock in the morning, so be it; Heahmund knows himself to be attractive enough to have no retort to fear. There is absolutely nothing Ivar could say to him that would truly wound Heahmund’s pride in general; but especially not after tonight.

Heahmund blames the way his limbs feel about ten times heavier than they should be, and how his body is half-asking him for another blindingly great orgasm before sleep, and how perfect Ivar’s warmth feels as it seeps underneath his skin – yet there is nothing he can blame it on when his lips find Ivar’s hair, reverently kissing him as though asking to be allowed into the boy’s undoubtedly sweet dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fríðr means “handsome” in Old Norse.
> 
> About first and second sleep: Before capitalism took over, people used to sleep for a while, then wake up to do something (eg eat or have sex), and then go to bed again for a second sleep. It’s been theorised that this is the normal sleep-pattern for humans, because even nowadays people revert back to that pattern when they are well-rested and don’t have to wake up early every day for work/school.
> 
> Drengr is THE highest compliment for a Viking warrior; a Drengr has reckless courage and follows a code of fair play. 
> 
> Varmr means “warm” in Old Norse.
> 
> Meirr means “more” in Old Norse.
> 
> Mínn means “my” in Old Norse.


	8. Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: self-harm in religious context, religious trauma, religious guilt, mentions of (past, explicit) sexual content, generalised angst. There is one mention of a character having cut themselves as penance for their sins (not described explicitly, just mentioned in passing in a sentence). Some lines can be interpreted as past sexual abuse (not suffered by any named character; it is mentioned in passing in the lines referring to Heahmund’s backstory).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title [is a song from Disturbed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VL6NyL20CxU); the title itself fits, but the lyrics only fit halfway. Why is that the trend…?
> 
> In this chapter, Heahmund makes the most out of the fact that the Great Heathen Army keeps marching South and actively searches for a way to repent for all his past sins while trying to not feel too affected by how the personification of his desires doesn’t come looking for him.
> 
> I would like to formally apologise for having such a dark, heavy chapter all of a sudden. I promise next chapter will be less introspective, with less religious trauma/guilt, and more dialogue.

Heahmund looks around, not bothering to hide how his gaze lingers on more than one axe and half-bent shield. The Great Heathen Army marches on around him, keeping him well-surrounded. It’s almost as if they fear he’ll try to escape as soon as they give him any opening to do so; still, they give him a wide berth as they walk by his side. Not a single _Berserkr_ under Hvitserk’s command dares look at him twice, even as a member of Ubbe’s Wolfpack nods their head towards him. Heahmund reciprocates the gesture in a much more contained way, gaze piercing right through the eye-openings of the other’s heavy helmet.

They leave soon enough, and his mind returns to the circular thoughts that have plagued him ever since he woke up three mornings ago, still face-up on Ivar’s bed, cock still out, still half-naked – but without any traces of dried come nor sweat on his body, and completely alone. Ivar’s axe had been gone, though his own sword remained where he’d put it the night before. The boy had made himself scarce ever since, avoiding staying for long enough on Heahmund’s sight to give him the opportunity to walk up to Ivar and talking to him.

It hurts.

Heahmund would never admit to anybody, not even to the God he confesses everything to through prayer, but it hurts.

Instead of filling his days with _Hnefatafl_ and philosophical discussions with Ivar, he’s had to make do with simply training with Ubbe and his Wolfpack. His injured side screamed at him for daring to move so brazenly while still at risk of reopening the wound or having it get infected by his own sweat and the dirt rising up from the ground due to his own and his opponents’ quick footwork; and yet Heahmund paid it no mind. His whole body is covered in scars already, as Ivar could see and feel for himself that one delicious night he shared Heahmund’s bed through – so what is one more scar, and especially one gained to protect something that has become a staple in his life?

Ubbe’s Wolfpack had proved itself to be composed of skilled warriors and fierce shield-maidens, all highly attractive individuals that had given Heahmund’s body more than one lustful stare upon realising that he’s just as much of a great swordsman when wounded as he is while uninjured. In other circumstances, Heahmund would’ve instantly risen to the challenge within their darkened eyes, if only in a twisted attempt to rile some Heathens up at how a Christian Bishop is better in bed than all their past, Heathen lovers.

In the end, adding even more fuel to the fire of his own turmoil, Heahmund had acted as though he never noticed that they had wanted something more from him. Every time he saw lust in any Heathen stare, he was instantly reminded of gentle hands and even gentler words, praising him for his looks, letting him have secret pleasures in the dead of night…

His frustrations had become evident to all once Ubbe himself had decided to join the sparring sessions, moved by his own hidden reasons rather than those he exposed to his Wolfpack. Heahmund was able to read him much easier while his sword repeatedly clashed with Ubbe’s axe; alas, he’d also been rendered unable to hide his hatred of how he’d been deprived of the secret pleasure of having Ivar stare at him as he consistently bested his brother. It did not matter if Ubbe chose to fight with axe-and-shield or double-wielding twin axes; Heahmund’s one-handed training was enough to prove he was still the more experienced _Vikingr_ in the ring.

The self-assured way with which Ubbe had circled around Heahmund to avoid a frontal clash before he’d time to prepare for it speaks volumes about Ubbe’s ability to remain calm amidst a raging battle; and that’s a skill Heahmund can admire not only because he saw it already back in York, but because Heahmund’s got it too. Another detail that he’d given him silent praise for was how Ubbe had avoided straining Heahmund’s left side too much; even when he had the perfect chance to strike at it, he’d refused to engage and just circled around to try and attack Heahmund’s back instead.

Such unspoken respect from a Heathen Prince-General… Heahmund still cannot wrap his head fully around the fact that Ivar may not be the only one who views him as anything other than a Christian pet to entertain the youngest Ragnarsson with.

Heahmund’s mind offers him an image of Ubbe smirking after having been able to match Heahmund’s blow for blow for about three quarters of one sparring match; then the Bishop had grown tired of waiting for Ivar to suddenly appear at the side-lines and had simply unleashed the full extent of his training. As balanced as Ubbe’s footwork had been, he’d lost spectacularly after that; but even then, he hadn’t lost that amused smirk.

Oh yes, Heahmund remembers with only the barest hint of a growl lodged across his throat, Ubbe had given him a run for his money every time his mind wandered off to the boy who refused to be present in his life; in the end, Heahmund had admitted out loud that Ubbe is quite the skilled warrior.

What Heahmund had not said, however, is that Ubbe is not at his level of expertise just yet.

Loud voices and laughter from the shield-maidens at his left take him back to the present. Heahmund’s dark irritation grows upon knowing himself sentenced to advance southwards with Ivar’s and Hvitserk’s hordes, instead of staying in the Castle of York with Ubbe and his Wolfpack. At least Ubbe had had the decency to briefly explain Ivar’s orders to Heahmund, since the boy general remained hidden from everybody’s view. Heahmund had paid attention to about half of it before growing bored enough, or maybe angry enough at Ivar and at his own fate, to downright interrogate Ubbe about the points he was most curious about.

After all, details like the Great Heathen Army’s current destination are pointless; but knowing why most of their warriors are moving out when the idea of a new Saxon attack to the city isn’t too far-fetched _is_ important. Heahmund grips his sword’s pummel tighter upon remembering that Ubbe had frowned before explaining that the plan was to precisely give the Saxons a new opportunity, although with better odds of succeeding this time.

Apparently, the _Jarls_ and _Thanes_ from the neighbouring areas feel more inclined to discuss and arrange alliances with Ubbe than with Ivar or Hvitserk; therefore, Ubbe’s dwelling in York makes sense. Ideally, these alliances will come to fruition before a new Saxon attack, which will give Ubbe, his Wolfpack, and their allies, a perfect chance at eliminating all the immediate threats and discovering how the Saxons managed to enter almost into the Castle itself last time.

Heahmund doubts it’ll be as easy as that, though. He’s seen Ubbe in both combat and diplomacy, yes; and the man clearly can handle himself just fine in both, but there is still something dark and insidious whispering into Heahmund’s ears. These hushed voices speak of pains to come, twist around him like ghosts of past pains. They’ve even dared to infiltrate his most secret dreams of deep blue and bitemarks, waking him up achingly hard and afraid for his life, for his soul, for all the emotions he doesn’t want to admit he’s ill-equipped to deal with.

The wooden cross hanging on the outside of his armour, higher than usual due to him having had to tie a new knot in its cord to secure after Ivar severed it days ago, feels suddenly heavy. Its touch would undoubtedly scorch Heahmund’s hand if he dared try to hold it, much like it did back in Ivar’s bedroom at the Castle of York. For how insistently the handsome boy inserted himself into Heahmund’s personal space until then, for all that Heahmund longed to be left alone, now he acutely misses having someone bold enough to make his mind tick and his breath hitch.

Lord Almighty, who art in Heaven, please allow Your swordfighter to properly fast and repent for having let Heathen hands and their accompanying mouth run all over Your fervent servant’s body. Please allow Your well-polished weapon to mark his own skin in Your Holy Name, renouncing to all earthly sins and readying himself to fight and kill in Your name once again…

“Fucking _finally_!”

Heahmund’s gaze instantly flies to the _Vikingr_ who growled such crude words in Old Norse. The man is around his same height and almost twice as broad at the shoulders; his whole body looks like the perfect model to carve woodwork after. When he stretches his arms out, oblivious to Heahmund’s discreet staring, he seems to be made entirely of straight, long lines from shoulder to hip. The impression Heahmund gets reminds him of the first times he saw Ivar shirtless; the boy’s torso also looked like a solid mass of muscle, much stronger physically than Heahmund could ever aspire to be. Ivar hadn’t taken kindly to Heahmund’s gaze roaming lower than his hips, however; both his legs looked so thin compared to the rest of his body that Heahmund’s heart had shrunk.

“I know, right! I needed a break too!” Hvitserk’s voice interrupts his thoughts. It comes happy and excited from somewhere in front; the boy himself is completely hidden from Heahmund’s amidst the sea of shields and broad backs.

“I’m beat…” A redheaded shield-maiden groans in Old Norse as she sits on a thick tree-root protruding from the ground. She immediately pulls a face and swipes her hand at the bark; it comes away covered in moss. “Are you fucking kidding me… I hate this so much.”

Heahmund doubts he’d be welcomed to sit down by her side, especially when a giddy Hvitserk appears in front of her, so he contents with finding a different tree-trunk to lean his back against. Perhaps it’d been better to stop for lunch while in the middle of the thick forest ahead, if only for the protection it’d grant the Great Heathen Army from arrows and swords alike. The decision seems final, though. It most likely came from Ivar himself; Hvitserk may hold enough authority to decide these things, but he doesn’t plan at all, much less with the kind of foresight needed to make these calls.

Heahmund’s skin prickles. He tells himself it’s from the rough bark digging into his still-injured side, although the wound has closed enough by now that he can raise his left arm and slightly turn his torso without risking bleeding out anew. An insidious ghost whispers that the sole reason why he’s so cross with the whole world is that it’s been three nights and almost four days since the last time he saw hide or hair of Ivar the Boneless – God send flaming swords to smite him down where he stands for all the unnameable sins running through his wicked mind and damning his immortal soul…

Hvitserk gives no sign that he’s seen Heahmund; he simply sits by the redheaded shield-maiden’s side and offers her a small pouch, its leather cord undone enough to show her what’s inside. Her smile is pretty to look at, though it could never hold a candle to the one plaguing Heahmund’s dreams and nightmares alike. Hvitserk allows her to take her share of food before taking his own, easily falling into shared conversation with her and some of the _Berserkir_ he commands. Heahmund needs only one more glance to know no one is paying any attention to him before walking away, the weight of his sins already too much to bear in the opened space.

The forest welcomes him in with gently-swaying branches above and songbirds’ calls around. The undergrowth looks thickest in the points closest to the oldest trees; the cloudberries shine especially ripe and tantalizing to his growling stomach. It reminds him of just how long it has been since he woke up and had an improvised breakfast with the Great Heathen Army at dawn-break, right before marching on.

Heahmund looks heavenwards, desperately trying to cling to the teachings he had beaten into him as a rebellious child who only wanted to explore God’s Kingdom in full. Only little pieces of cloudy blue can be seen in between the thickly-leafed branches; two small birds fly overhead, calling to one another in a chirping harmony that would usually have calmed Heahmund’s nerves significantly. Today, however, his mood darkens upon realising that he will not be granted any heavy rains to wash his sins away, nor any storms with which to drown the Great Heathen Army.

The wooden cross is heavier than the sword at his hip. Its weight seems to increase with every step he takes away from the Army, away from Hvitserk and his very obvious flirting – away from Ivar, who undoubtedly remains in his war-chariot at the head of their march. Heahmund knows better than to let disappointment surge from deep within, since people have always been the greatest source of pain and loss he’s ever experienced in his entire lifetime; and yet–

The forest thickens around him as if pulling him further in. An incredibly old ash tree rests to his right, its thick trunk opened down the middle like it has been repeatedly struck by lightning through its otherwise peaceful existence. Several bushes have made the most of the shaded space by concentrating at the ash’s foot; Heahmund briefly spots a tiny, brown squirrel running away from their thorny prickling. He interprets the sight as the holiest vision he will get for as long as his life remains tainted by having to surround himself with godless, filthy Heathens who love to fight and fuck.

Ghosts of past pains insist on making themselves known as he unlaces the ribbons running down the front of his outermost layer. The cross ebbs when he slides his gloved hand underneath it to strip himself of the leather, letting it rest on the grassy forest-floor by the shrubs. The dark undershirt goes right after, leaving him clad in only his trousers, boots, bandages, and the accusing weight of the cross against the shallow valley at the centre of his chest. Trying to not mind its woody screams at him, Heahmund takes off his sword’s belt and lets its hilt rest atop his discarded clothes. As reckless as he thinks it is to be unarmed and alone, especially when any Heathen could come looking for him at any moment, he cannot bring himself to care.

If God deems it appropriate to send punishment in the form of a blue-eyed Heathen General, then so be it. His destiny was written long before he was born; the only thing he can do about it is face it head-on, brave like he imagines a _Drengr_ must be. He still has no idea what the word truly means; but Ivar had accused him of being one while stroking him to completion, so it cannot be anything shorter than an incredible compliment to give another man – if the tryst has revealed anything, it is that Ivar is far more open with his true opinions about Heahmund when his body seeks release and his mind is overtaken by Heahmund’s own lust.

Pain erupts all over his torso and thighs when he kneels to meet the shrubs, their sharp thorns digging into his skin and piercing through both his bandages and trousers. A groan leaves his throat at the familiar agony of his penance. When he hunches over, the bushes become tall enough to scratch at his cheeks. The thorns pull at his beard, because he hasn’t been able to shave in a good fortnight or so, and instantly remind him that the next time he takes a blade to his skin it should be to make himself presentable, and not to bleed his sins out as penance.

Heahmund lets his eyes fall closed. He focuses on the pain itself, on how it feels to lean both his arms on the branches and let the thorns drag across his sinful flesh. Tiny rivers of red appear all over his upper body. Heahmund swears he can feel every single drop caressing him – just like the most attractive person he has ever met in his entire life caressed him three nights and three days ago.

It is utterly impossible to concentrate in the prayers that he should know by heart. Their English words elude him completely; they hide in the darkest corners of his psyche and refuse to come out even when summoned. The fog that descends upon most of his memories in moments like this grows thicker, impenetrable. He can only recall parts and pieces of his past. As it should be. He should only be able to remember the Latin prayers he used to recite to abstract himself from the corporal punishments he earned so often, _too_ often, as a child.

Light refracting on a cathedral’s stained-glass windows. The coarse texture of his white robes against his naked legs. The bellowing and deep voice of the priest delivering the sermon. Too many eyes following his hands and focusing on his bloodied knuckles. Acute pain in his outer thighs and back every time he stands, sits down, kneels. The litany in Latin he can distantly hear himself repeating. How he longs to have a training sword back in his hand, even though its blade is dull.

The scenery jumps around him, shifting mercilessly while he remains affixed to the ground. He is back in his tiny, empty room. The bedframe has only hay and a blanket in it. The slit they call a window is too tiny to even look through. It is always dark in here. The walls are thin enough to let him hear how the other novices scream in pain at night. The cross hanging from the wall is big. Its wood is cracked in places. He has counted the marks many times. He wonders if, one day, his body will have more scars than the cross has cracks.

A shadow obscures the little light coming in through the window. He turns around in place to face the slit in the wall.

A boy with braided hair and the bluest eyes he has ever seen in a human being. His smile is blindingly bright. Mischievous. Full of laughter and life. He is not dull like his training sword, like the other novices, like the strait-laced instructors and priests. This boy has secret promises in his lips. But he does not know himself enough for this. He lets the mischievous boy lead, and he leans in closer. His gait is lopsided. He extends his arms to let the handsome boy hold on to his body. They breathe the same air–

Heahmund growls in pain when his body sags forward, the thorns digging deeper into his body now. One has managed to go from his cheek to his lips almost seamlessly; he cannot feel any scratches on the skin it ran across, but there is a small cut almost at the right commissure of his lips. His mouth remains opened even after lack of air makes his growl die out. The thorn delicately threatens with sliding into his mouth for a moment; and yet he makes no motion to stop it from doing so. It is all part of his penitence. Even more so when the first image his disjointed mind could focus on was not the prayers and litanies he’s been trained to recall at will, but a temptation he didn’t yet know while living in those Church’s facilities.

The breeze ruffling the trees’ branches high above him refuses to play with any shrubs, almost as if it feared being prickled as brutally as Heahmund is being stung right now. It simply blows around him instead, trying to cool his heated skin. The ghastly touch does little to calm him down; it only serves to remind him of how naked and vulnerable his back is. If someone wanted to cut him through, there would be nothing he could do to stop them from ramming a dagger into his kidneys, or from slashing him opened from shoulders to hips. A shiver racks his entire body, causing the thorns to break his skin at multiple points. Both his arms are marked by now, and his torso cannot be looking any better. He cannot focus his gaze on anything, although his eyes remain opened.

His stomach growls again. He’s so desperately hungry that his head throbs in time with his heartbeat. Hungry for _what_ , though, he barely knows. It would be great to have bread to bite into, even if it were coated in vinegar like the Romans offered to Jesus Christ while he hung nailed to a huge, wooden cross. A cross just like the one still dangling from Heahmund’s neck.

Its touch burns his skin every time it ebbs against his torso, moved more by the breeze around him than because he’s moving. Every part of his body feels heavy, because he’s impregnated by sin, and any sin is heavy enough to drag adult people into Hell. He wonders if the fires of Hell burn a fierce red or a deep white-blue; the blacksmiths he’s seen working for the Great Heathen Army somehow manage to feed the flames until they change colours from the gentle orange-red of any candle.

A deep white-blue. Just like the expressive, beautiful eyes of Ivar the Boneless.

The pain spreading throughout his left side tells him that the thorns have pierced right through the bandages. He can feel his heartbeat there, on the wound’s ragged edges, pulsating in time with the shifting ghosts swirling around his head. One of them stops its turnaround at Heahmund’s back and merely stands there, phantasmagorical and proud. It looks down at his scarred back with a look that he can see in his mind. He still remembers it well. He always will remember it.

_One for gluttony, two for sloth, three for envy, four for greed, five for wrath, six for pride, seven for lust._

Twenty-eight scars across his back. Twenty-eight lashes of the roughest whip he remembers them having. He had bled for days and nights on end, the wounds opening again and again as he kept his regular schedule of sword-training.

Heahmund remembers the pain very well. He has never felt a similar agony. Not even when he’d fruitlessly tried to give up his sexuality’s ravenous appetite had he felt such anguish. The coarse robes he was forced to wear did not help either; they rubbed against the wounds and irritated his tendered skin even further.

He had never been allowed to bandage them up. Just like he could never bandage the shallow cuts he received when he wasn’t quick to block or parry during his physical training. Those swords were dull, yes, but he knows he bruises easily. He always has.

Nobody tended to his wounds. Not to the twenty-eight lashes, not to any cut he received during his physical training. Never. They merely made sure the wounds did not infect. Rough and unforgiving. He should have known better already than to let himself be wounded.

Gentle hands fleeting across his skin, leaving wildfire in their wake. Concerned, blue eyes following their every move. Refreshing water to cool his Demons with. A clean, pristine-white cloth to cover the wound with. His greatest temptation taking care of him.

Heahmund half-gasps, half-groans as he struggles to take another gulp of air. His lungs seem determined to not work properly. His abdomen quivers from his struggle; the thorns prickle him again and again when his body’s movements force them in and out of his flesh. More thin rivers of red run southwards. South, like the Great Heathen Army. Is that brilliant Prince-General at the helm still? Will he stand forever proud at his hordes’ prow?

Would he ever realise Heahmund is gone, would he care, would he turn head to look for him…?

He regains his breath with a deep heave of his chest and a full-body shiver. He’s cold, so terribly cold. The blood flowing out of him is tainted by his sins, and he knows it. But he still resents it as it leaves his body. Blood-loss can be dangerous. Men have died from it both in and out of the battlefield. Around him, the world spins on its own axis. It disorients him until he doesn’t know where the skies are anymore. Everything is dark and cold and quiet.

The ghost of another’s warm touch seeps into his right side. It spreads across his chest, towards his left shoulder. His right thigh is aflame, just like his crotch. The memory is blunt, unforgiving in its sudden cruelty – why, God, why does it appear now of all times to torture him so…?

_Drengr mínn…!_

Heahmund’s body responds to the call resounding loud and clear within his mind. It’s been etched into his very soul already, as insidious as it is comforting. The breathless tone of voice, the mystery surrounding the high compliment itself, the boy from whom it came…

All those physical instructors and preachers were right, after all. Some sins will never be washed away from his sinful flesh. Because he’s too much of a sinner. Because he’s just as damned as those he’s been forged to destroy. Because he has never been the good Christian altar-boy they wanted him to be, and he will never be.

_Punish me! Ravage me!_

The thorns hold him steady, much like the metal ring around his neck and the short chain used to do. God has never seemed too inclined to rain salvation upon His devout swordsman, lenient as He has always been with him. Therefore, Heahmund learnt quickly to pray for his own destruction instead. It’s congruent with everything he has been told he is, with everything he’s told he will always be. He is only God’s sharp weapon. He’ll be discarded soon enough, sent downwards to Hell to forever rot for the Deadly Sins he dared commit in this earthly life.

How curious, then, that God has allowed him to live thus far – and that a Heathen boy has been the only one bold enough to ravage Heahmund’s body, instead of begging to be ravaged by him.

Half-formed syllables appear in his mind. They are much more Latin than English, musical despite their disastrous state. His thoughts run in circles. He cannot remember a single, complete lyric from any prayer nor Christian chant. Distant war-drums resound in his ears; he cannot tell whether they come from the outside or from his own mind’s depths. He already misses the clash of metal against metal, although he had it not a full week ago.

The wound at his side burns as if to remind him that he fought, and fell, and shed blood, to inadvertently protect a gorgeous Heathen Prince from a fatal blow. Heahmund’s left hand goes to its lower edges; some of his fingers rest featherlight on his own hipbone, over his trousers. The pressure is not enough to disturb the wound, but he can feel it throb anyway. Just like his cock did while Ivar teased at his nipples and bit at his chest – Lord punish him for his immeasurable sin of lust, for he cannot wait to have the boy in his bed once again…

And yet, Heahmund knows better than that. Ivar the Boneless is a fickle creature, after all; ever-changing, like the Moon. His avoidance of him can only mean that he has already obtained what he sought from Heahmund. Discarding him like a broken toy not only makes sense; it is the logical thing to do. Heahmund cannot fault Ivar for it, much as it feels like a tight fist is seizing his heart and pressing hard against his ribcage, because he has done the same thing to every single bed-partner he’s ever had.

Besides, Ivar hasn’t yet given any indications as to what the point of that sexual exploration was.

Heahmund shakes his head until the thorn at his cheek caresses his skin, gentle as the blade he shaved with. His shifting thoughts cannot focus on anything other than this mischievous, attractive boy. He has rendered his penance broken, futile. Heahmund will not find any salvation here, in these thorny bushes at the ash tree’s foot. He can only leave this place while his sanity is not too fragmented yet. This time, though, he will steer clear of all shield-maidens in the Great Heathen Army; he doesn’t wish to witness how the two Ragnarssons flirt and seduce them into their beds.

Ascetism has never been a good look on Heahmund, much as it clashes with every teaching imposed on him by steel and whip, but he has no other option left. Celibacy has always been required of him; Heahmund allows himself a private smile while he dresses in his armour, for he’s never observed that one rule very well. The smile disappears when he realises that, if he stays away from shield-maidens and Ivar wants nothing to do with him, his only possible bed-partners are male _Vikingar_ and _Berserkir_ ; and they all would deny him that to not be accused of being _ergi_.

Once he returns to the Heathen hordes, his mood darkens until it’s blacker than it was before he left; for nobody pays him any mind nor spares any glances at him, nor at the wooden cross which re-tied cord he’s wrapped around his sword’s sheath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Berserkr (plural form “Berserkir”) is the Old Norse word for warriors who fight in a trance-like fury (some sources claim they were intoxicated with mushrooms while fighting). English spells it as “berserker”.
> 
> A Jarl is a Norse (or Danish) chief.
> 
> A Thane is (in Anglo-Saxon England) a man who held land granted by the king or by a military nobleman. A Thane ranks between an ordinary freeman and a hereditary noble.
> 
> About the ash tree: it’s symbolism, because Yggdrasill (the World Tree) is an ash tree. [This](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/41/Old_Ash_Tree_-_geograph.org.uk_-_390514.jpg) is the image I used as reference to describe it accurately. I’m no herbalist, as you can see; so feel free to correct me about the plants, or to add details in your mind as you read!
> 
> Drengr is THE highest compliment for a Viking warrior; a Drengr has reckless courage and follows a code of fair play. 
> 
> Drengr mínn means “my Drengr” in Old Norse.
> 
> Ergi is an insult. It means “unmanly” (also used as “coward”). In this case, it’s used to insult men who take on passive roles during sex.


	9. Warning Sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: canon-typical violence, two characters fighting/sparring with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is [a song by Disturbed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auS9feq_VWQ).
> 
> In this chapter, Heahmund tries to not get pissed off at Ivar’s refusal to speak with him even after a full week has passed since he was touched, and is confronted by a quiet beast who seeks answers and refuses to pull any punches to protect those he cares about.

The horse throws its head from side to side, frothing violently at the mouth as its rider forces it to go from galloping to a complete halt in a matter of seconds. A _Berserkr_ raises his hands to the beast’s neck, but falters when the horse recoils. Its beautiful brown coat is covered in a glean of sweat, which glistens under the mid-afternoon sunrays. When the animal throws its head around as if trying to break free of the reins, Heahmund can see the white blaze at its face. It seems as exhausted as the rider; Heahmund can scarcely blame either, because it’s clear they’ve just finished a non-stopping gallop directly from the occupied city of York.

“ _Vísi mínn_.” The call is repeated with every step the now-dismounted rider takes away from his horse; _Vikingar_ and _Berserkir_ alike showing him the same respect that they always show to the other two Ragnarssons.

Ubbe mostly pays them no mind; though; once he’s certain his skittery horse will be properly tended to, he simply ignores the deferent calls of his name and title and lets his gaze sweep over the Roman ruins which the Great Heathen Army has concentrated around. Their current forward-camp is less refined than it was the last time Heahmund had the dubious pleasure of being a prisoner within it; but, perhaps due to that, it serves its purpose much better than the countryside building did. Ubbe’s gaze doesn’t stop at the entry to the old, half-ruined bathhouse which silent rooms Hvitserk and Ivar have claimed for themselves. Heahmund cannot help but notice how ruffled his brown hair is; there are more locks out of the tight braid than there are in it.

Suddenly, Ubbe’s gaze finds Heahmund’s. The Prince’s eyes flash dangerously bright and blue, something unhinged making itself known from within their dark depths.

“ _You_.” Ubbe has crossed what little distance separated him from Heahmund in a matter of seconds. He sways gently to one side, almost like he’s unaccustomed to having both his feet on land after so many hours spent on horseback. There’s a cut on his forehead that was not there the last time Heahmund saw him; its healed state tells him that Ubbe got it back in their last battle in York, probably after Heahmund took off. The wild danger of his looks ruffle Heahmund’s feathers to the point of making him reach for his sword’s handle, just in case Ubbe’s growling isn’t merely for show. “We need to talk. _Now_.”

“You should eat first.” Heahmund immediately replies in Old Norse, for Ubbe’s mastery of English is weaker than Heahmund’s knowledge of the Heathen tongue. He’s managed to rein his natural accent in, too; a small victory when he’s speaking deliberately slow and steady to not further aggravate Ubbe. “Your horse will rest, you should do the same.”

“Later.”

Ubbe’s gaze flickers downwards to Heahmund’s sword without having to move his head. Their difference in height is very slight, but it still irritates Heahmund; there is a difference between knowing all Ragnarssons are taller than him and actually having one of them standing so close to him. The worst part of it all is that Ubbe’s stormy-blue eyes remind him too much of Ivar’s own – God and Gods smite the boy down for having the gall to avoid Heahmund for a whole week already…!

“Priest! I’m talking to you!”

Heahmund doesn’t bother hiding his snarl nor his glower as he stares into Ubbe’s face. The Prince seems even more infuriated now; apparently the hatred of being ignored runs in the family. Heahmund’s fist tightens around his sword’s handle. He wonders if he should’ve half-drawn it first, for that would’ve made it much easier to retrieve it from its sheath quicker. Ubbe is dextrous and quick with his axe despite the blunt strength of his toned arms; in such close quarters and without any preparations from Heahmund’s part, Ubbe would draw the first blood.

“I’m listening.” Heahmund forces himself to growl, Norse words scraping against his throat like he remembers the ground scraping against his armour, against his skin, every time a well-timed blow sent him down during a hard fight. His Old Norse may have improved significantly due to Ivar conversing with him on a daily basis, but some sounds remain quite difficult to pronounce correctly. “So speak now. And you know very well, I am not a Priest.”

“There’s no difference between a bishop and a priest. You just have a little more power.”

Ubbe cocks his head to the right, silently indicating the direction which he intends to walk in. His braid flies around his shoulder and lands softly against the edges of his sleeveless leather armour; some of the looser locks slide in between it and the dark green shirt he’s wearing under the outermost layer. Ubbe growls at the rough feeling of getting his hair pulled by his own clothes and raises his hands to liberate the locks one-by-one.

Curiously, he doesn’t braid it properly anew; he just spares a glance to Heahmund, probably to confirm he’s following, and keeps walking towards the bathhouse’s edges. Heahmund pointedly ignores the questioning looks he’s earning from the Great Heathen Army simply by being at Ubbe’s side, deeming them as no potential threat for as long as he remains close enough to the Prince-General to grab him and use him as a human shield if need be.

Ubbe walks to the half-dilapidated staircase at the bathhouse’s exterior; he needs to lean a hand on the banister to laboriously climb each step. His breath is audibly loud with every step he takes, which doesn’t betray anything other than the exhaustion seeping into his very marrow. It’s very possible that this stubborn, proud _Vikingr_ is standing only due to adrenaline and sheer force of will. Heahmund would not fault him if he decided to stop mid-climb and sit down on the steps; his own state surely isn’t any better, considering the lengths he’s gone to in this Ivar-less week to try and get the brilliant, handsome boy out of his mind.

Still, Ubbe manages to reach the staircase’s top without an incidence, Heahmund following him in complete silence. The sun will set soon; it’s almost leant down enough to touch the horizon, though parts of its brilliant sphere are hidden by shadowed treetops. Ubbe leans both his forearms on the balustrade and bends forward until his forehead rests atop the leather bracers. The posture cannot be comfortable for him, Heahmund thinks; but Ubbe doesn’t protest, and so he remains silent as well.

Below them, the bathhouse is a bustling centre of rushing bodies and half-muffled voices. Heahmund doesn’t pay them nearly enough attention to distinguish any Old Norse words; Ubbe’s smile, however, says that he himself can understand his brothers’ warriors just fine. Exhausted as he must be, there’s still a lot of fire left in him, setting him aflame from the inside out. Heahmund silently recognises and admires that inability to give up, even when his body cannot physically go on; it is the same quality that granted Heahmund his first compliment from Ivar.

“How is the city faring?” Heahmund asks in English after several minutes pass without Ubbe uttering a single word. The _Vikingr_ frowns as he mulls the sentence over; Heahmund quickly concedes and repeats it in Old Norse. It’s more than clear that this conversation will flow easier this way; Ubbe is too tired to bother with English, whereas Heahmund is already used to conversing fluently in the Heathens’ mother tongue.

An image of Ivar’s blinding smile upon realising that Heahmund can speak Old Norse flashes brilliantly clear in his mind’s eye.

“Quieter now.” Ubbe looks at him as he speaks. From this three-quarters angle, Ubbe’s features seem made exclusively of long, vertical lines; he’s without a doubt the most angular out of the three brothers. Heahmund internally admits that Ubbe looks handsome even with his skin covered by dust and dishevelled from the long travel. “My Wolfpack can keep the peace there.”

“For now.” Heahmund points out, though he’s merely echoing the unspoken parts he’s heard in Ubbe’s sentence.

“For now.” The Prince agrees much more easily than Ivar would have, Heahmund instantly notices.

The wild sharpness from before is now gone from Ubbe’s eyes; all that remains is fatigue and the impervious need to tell whatever news he brings. It makes Heahmund wonder why Ubbe hasn’t gone directly to meet his two brothers, or at least Ivar, before coming to him. He’s planned with Ubbe in the past, yes; but Ivar was also a great part of it, both because of his strategic mind, and because Ubbe trusts him much more than he does Heahmund. Ubbe sighs heavily, his gaze sweeping over the horizon in front of him before he gathers enough air to speak anew.

“Halfdan _Jarl_ says York is a bit too south for Scots and Picts, those attack further north. He’s experienced, knows what he talks about. I trust him. That’s why I was alright with riding all the way to here to meet our Army. And before you ask, I rode alone because it attracts less attention.”

Heahmund nods at the information, although it’s not new to him. Northumbria has been submerged in deep turmoil for as long as he can remember; it makes perfect sense that Danes and Norsemen alike would rather move southward, to Mercia and East Anglia, instead than marching right into that unruly pandemonium. Who he hasn’t heard about, however, is this Halfdan _Jarl_ whom Ubbe mentioned; Heahmund surmises that he’s most likely a warrior who crowned himself Lord of some small village in the neighbouring areas of York. Unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and definitely not someone the Anglo-Saxon King and Lords would ever wage any bloody wars against. All in all, he’s probably naught but another pawn in the intricate game played by the Heathen invaders against the Anglo-Saxon defenders.

The memory of how he used to play _Hnefatafl_ with Ivar at least once a day during his captivity is like a punch to the gut. It leaves him breathless, abdomen quivering as if he’d really been physically hit. He’s suddenly very glad he’s donning his full regalia; the leather outer layer is tough and inflexible enough to hide his tremors from Ubbe’s gaze.

“I was lucky to catch up so quickly.” There’s a predatory quality to Ubbe’s smile, lurking around the sharp fangs he shows. Heahmund is painfully aware of the damage he could cause to another’s soft body. The marks and bruises that Ivar’s own left in his flesh have not yet disappeared entirely, though they’ve faded considerably over the last week. “How slowly have you been moving exactly?”

“Painfully slow.” Heahmund replies. For a moment, Ubbe just stares at him with a slight frown at either the choice of words or the grammar. It makes Heahmund grow even more aware of how he hasn’t been able to practise his Old Norse as often as he would have if Ivar had grown enough of a backbone to confront him – by God Himself, how could that boy touch Heahmund so, only to immediately discard him right after…?!

“… _right_.” Ubbe’s voice grows raspier at the end from how long he’s stretched the word. Heahmund blinks his thoughts away and curses himself for having slipped away in the middle of a conversation, and with Ivar’s elder brother no less. Willing his thoughts to still is easier said than done, though; especially when Ubbe treacherously adds, “… So how are things here? Are my brothers holding up alright?”

“Hvitserk looks delighted to be here. I think the shield-maidens like him a lot.”

Ubbe’s laugh is a conniving little thing worming its dark way into Heahmund’s memory. It instantly reminds him of all the giddy giggles and breathless gasps he’s ever heard stumble down from in between Ivar’s parted lips. Annoyed at himself for letting his self-imposed, newly-found celibacy mess with his mind like this, Heahmund looks away from Ubbe. There’s more rubble collected at the corner of each stairstep than he’d initially seen.

“My little brother has always loved to live here and now. He’ll die without a single regret, just like he lives now. I admit I admire that in him.”

“I imagine many people do.”

“Less than you think.” Ubbe’s tone and grit betrays exactly what he thinks about others’ perceptions of Hvitserk, erroneous or otherwise. Heahmund may have no siblings, but he cannot fault Ubbe for always standing up for his own. “I knew Hvitserk would be fine, though. He’s tough. How is Ivar?”

“Are you implying he’s not tough?”

Ubbe’s frown should’ve been reaction enough to signal how strange he thinks it that Heahmund immediately jumped to Ivar’s defence; the cocking of his head to one side is almost overkill. He raises from the balustrade in a contained motion, all coiled strength right underneath his shimmering leathers. It’s a slow and regal show meant to downright intimidate whoever Ubbe directs it at; alas, Heahmund is much too used to dealing with powerful men than to be fazed in the slightest.

To his credit, Ubbe recognises Heahmund’s dark look for what it is even when his body seems about to fall apart at the seams. He keeps one hand on the balustrade like he needs it there to support his own weight, or maybe to not unfasten himself from the ground to the point of toppling over. When the sunrays fall over his face just right, Heahmund can see the many questions lurking in the depths of Ubbe’s eyes; the usually deep blue overtaken by the black pupils almost fully. Heahmund allows himself to frown lightly at it, for the sun has not yet disappeared behind the horizon; there’s still too much sunlight to justify such a change. Perhaps this Prince is simply more sensitive to the light than Ivar seems to be…

“What happened between you and Ivar?”

Heahmund’s heart picks its pace up. He hides it as masterfully as he used to do in the King’s court before the fatidic battle that put him into Heathen hands, or in the empty corners of the Church’s facilities in which he was trained and moulded into the Weapon of God that he is today. He’s got more than enough experience under his belt for it to be an easy task; Ubbe certainly doesn’t look like he’s noticed anything amiss with him, sans for that one question Heahmund asked even though he shouldn’t have.

“How should I know? I have not seen him in days.”

“I don’t believe you. Ivar adores you too much to discard you.”

Heahmund reels from the choice of words, although he logically knows that Ubbe simply meant to refer to the admiration that Ivar admitted to feeling for Heahmund. There is nothing else between them, after all; nothing except for the secret bruises still lingering on Heahmund’s skin and the uncomfortable sensation of not having the boy by his side.

Reality sinks into Heahmund’s heart as heavy as a metallic anchor plunging into deep, dark waters. Everything he can do is give Ubbe a sardonic smile and a huff of his breath, desperately hoping it can pass for a scoff.

“ _Bishop_.” Ubbe’s pronunciation in English is less torpid than Hvitserk’s, but his accent is not yet as slight as Ivar’s. Heahmund supposes he said his Holy title in English because there’s no Norse equivalent, for Ubbe immediately switches languages, “I have no patience for your mind-games. Play them with Ivar, not with me. But he _is_ my brother, and if you have hurt him, you _will_ pay.”

This time, Heahmund’s scoff is genuine. Ubbe takes it as provocation, though he hadn’t meant it as such. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t give Heahmund any other warnings.

Ubbe doesn’t reach for the axe dangling from his belt, so Heahmund lets go of his sword’s handle to simply block the punch Ubbe threw at him. The _Vikingr_ groans a mere second before he retaliates with his fisted off-hand. Heahmund manages to block that too, which leaves him standing with his back bent at a somewhat forced angle, both his hands closed around Ubbe’s leather bracers to hold hm in place. Ubbe glares at him like a simple stare could make Heahmund drop dead. He’s trembling all over, though whether it’s from anger or exhaustion is anybody’s guess.

Thankfully, Ubbe doesn’t try to kick him; Heahmund knows from watching him spar with his Wolfpack that he’s perfectly capable of doing so. He’d most likely go for the closed wound at Heahmund’s side, too, if only because it’s the most vulnerable place that he cannot completely guard while both his hands are busy elsewhere. Heahmund has to internally thank Ubbe for not doing either of those things; he could start bleeding anew if the wound is tampered with, even though it already is mostly closed.

Despite his refusal to fight dirty, Ubbe isn’t making things easier for Heahmund, either. The Prince deliberately leans his whole weight onto the points where he’s held in place, forcing Heahmund to hold him in place. If he let go, Ubbe’s sheer momentum would make him hit Heahmund hard. Both men groan and growl at each other during this improvised impasse, Ubbe’s blue anger staring into Heahmund’s grey storms.

The struggle goes on for several moments, until Ubbe seems to grow weaker and weaker with each passing second. Heahmund searches his eyes and recognises the fading rage within; he’s quite sure his own eyes show something similar, for his body suddenly feels as weakened as Ubbe looks. Curse that fatidic midday in the woods when he threw himself head-first into thorny bushes and decided upon both celibacy and fasting as more suitable penance for his continued sins of envy and lust…

Heahmund’s stomach growls with hunger for more than food; then, he takes pity on his exhausted opponent by gently pushing him backwards, effectively releasing him from his grapple.

Ubbe instantly falls to his knees; Heahmund takes a half-step backwards to give him enough space. His back collides with the bathhouse’s external wall, the rough leather of his armour shifting against the naked stones. Heahmund’s sure that he’ll leave deep scratches in his attire if he’s not careful, so he shifts his stance forward until there’s a minimal distance between himself and the wall, but without intruding on Ubbe’s personal space.

Ubbe’s breath comes out in gasps and groans, much more because he’s cursing Heahmund out than because he’s so terribly winded. Heahmund crosses his arms over his chest and simply waits, bemused yet careful on equal parts. Ubbe might be too exhausted to be a worthy rival right now, but there’s no denying the blind fury in his eyes when he’d accused Heahmund of hurting Ivar. Apparently, Heahmund’s impression of Ubbe as his brothers’ protector was not so mistaken – not that Hvitserk nor Ivar truly need protection, though; Heahmund feels himself condemned even more at his pride flaring because he’s still marked by a certain blue-eyed Strategist.

Ubbe crawls backwards until he can sit down with his back against the balustrade. He’s quite tall, but it still offers him full cover; not even the most skilled of archers could hit him from this angle. Their arrows, however, would lodge themselves into Heahmund’s sinful flesh quite easily, because he’s still standing in plain sight. The thought is insidious enough to make Heahmund sit down too, in front and slightly to the right of Ubbe, placing one foot on the first stairstep so he can comfortably bend his knee. The posture prevents him from straightening his back as much as he’d normally do, which makes him appear somewhere between blasé and insolent; a strange middle-term that Ubbe doesn’t seem to mind, but one that Ivar would’ve teased him for.

“Has Ivar not told you _anything_ , then?” Ubbe suddenly growls more than asks.

“No.”

“You don’t know where we march to?”

“No.”

“And you haven’t grabbed my brother by the scruff of his neck yet?”

“No.” Heahmund repeats _again_ , trying to not show his amusement at such a heated mental image. Hunger stirs in his lower belly, irritated from his abstinence. He promptly shuts it up by reaccommodating his sword’s sheath, not wanting its tip to scrape against the old Roman floor. “I have not had the chance. _Yet_.”

Ubbe actually laughs at that, not as boisterous as Hvitserk, but not as giddy as Ivar either. A perfect middle-term between his two brothers. For a moment, his fangs and eyes are the most brilliant parts of him. Heahmund’s entire chest pulses like there’s something pushing underneath his skin, trying to get out of the confines of his ribcage. The bitemarks at his sternum throb painfully, vying for his attention like Ivar does whenever his gaze searches for Heahmund’s own.

“I figured as much.” When Ubbe’s laughter dies out, he remains smiling, oblivious to how it torments Heahmund so. His playful tone shows that all his past anger has already melted away; maybe he’s just too tired to think about anything other than rest, or perhaps he’s finally understood that Heahmund hasn’t hurt Ivar. When Ubbe notices Heahmund staring at his face, he interprets it as an implicit question, “Because you’re still outside, and not locked up in my brother’s bedroom.”

Heahmund forces himself to speak quickly, lest he becomes lost in all the possible implications of Ubbe’s last sentence.

“So I’m still his prisoner?”

“That’s not for me to say.” Ubbe shrugs one shoulder in an elegant gesture. It once again causes his loosest locks to catch in between his leather armour and that dark green shirt. Ubbe lets out a much weaker groan than the ones he emitted during his fight with Heahmund, if it can even be called that due to its briefness, and untangles himself from his clothes. Heahmund silently observes how Ubbe’s hair shines more blonde than brown under the setting sunrays, his long fingers undoing his braids as he goes along. “Ask that to Ivar, not me. _He_ was the one who claimed you, not Hvitserk or me.”

Heahmund swallows drily around the thick lump in his throat. The faded bruises on his collarbones laugh at him from within the confines of his leather and cloth. His cock stirs, treacherous and lustful, when Ubbe’s head rolls backwards to lean on the balustrade behind him; the gesture, although completely innocent, only serves to accentuate just how blue his eyes are, and that in turn reminds Heahmund of another set of deeper, darker blue eyes.

“You should rest.”

“And you should be at Ivar’s side. Yet here we are.”

Heahmund scoffs again; his smile is a scathing little thing giving him a predator’s hauntingly intense aura. To his credit, Ubbe appears utterly unmoved by the display. He’s as much of a fearless warrior as Heahmund himself, the Bishop thinks, though not yet as experienced in a million different battlefields.

Perhaps noticing that this line of conversation will grant him no boons, Ubbe is quick to change his approach. His voice grows softer as he speaks, not bothering to hide his feeble state of being from Heahmund’s observant gaze and biting retorts.

“How long have you been camped here?”

“Since yesterday night.” Heahmund has a feeling he hasn’t quite used the correct Norse expression, but Ubbe doesn’t call him out, so he stops worrying about it. Still, he’d much rather have Ivar rolling his pretty eyes at him and correcting him with a provocative remark.

“They set the camp up quicky.” Ubbe sounds almost amazed, “Hvitserk’s work?”

“His forces’ work. He helped, but he didn’t do everything alone.”

Ubbe smiles at that, all light and fangs. There’s something decidedly likable about him, Heahmund realises with a start at his own readiness to trust this Heathen Prince. His frown does naught but grow when Ubbe grows aware of it; his knowledge shines painfully clear in how carefully he chooses his next words.

“Nobody can do many things completely alone. Not even the toughest of men.”

“True.” Heahmund replies easily, though only because it’s better than letting Ubbe know exactly how deeply he’s gotten under Heahmund’s skin with only a couple of well-timed sentences. Heahmund’s grateful that Ubbe seems too exhausted to realise how he’s cut right through the guilt and anger that have been simmering within Heahmund’s blood for days; the Heathen just leans more fully against the balustrade and closes his eyes.

“Do _not_ fall asleep here. Go to the bathhouse, maybe Hvitserk has left something uneaten. And then find yourself a proper bed.”

“Are you my mother now?” Ubbe smiles, but does not open his eyes. “From what I remember, she was more beautiful than you. Less bearded. And drank more wine.”

Heahmund has half a mind to tease that Ubbe’s last statement is false because he’s drank more than his fair share of Communion Wine, both during Mass and from how he used to sneak his way towards the tabernacle to taste it as a teenager, because it was the only alcohol available to him in the Church’s facilities. In the end, however, he remains silent. Who knows what these Heathens would think of him if they knew he’s not quite as straight-laced as he might seem at first glance…

“God save me from having to raise four brats.”

Ubbe laughs heartily at that, gazing at Heahmund with something that resembles amiability more than rage. A shadow of his bloodiest tendencies remains in his posture; Heahmund shivers upon catching himself admiring Ubbe’s practised ability to hide his own darkness behind a calm façade. He can easily picture this man sitting on an opulent, Heathen-styled throne, delivering justice that none will question even if they disagree, or negotiating peace with a _Jarl_ while subtly declaring war on another King present in front of him. Once again, Ubbe’s decision to remain at York to negotiate with the neighbouring _Jarls_ and _Thanes_ strikes him as having been the right choice.

“You laugh, but you have no idea how terrible we were as children.”

“As terrible as you are now, I’d imagine.”

“Even more!” Ubbe laughs anew, his eyes illuminated by the childhood memories that he seems so fond of. The setting sun encases Heahmund in shadows from the chest down; Ubbe’s already completely eclipsed by the balustrade. “Mother was so exhausted by Kattegat’s politics and her own visions that I had to take care of them… sometimes I don’t even know if I’m their brother or their father.”

Heahmund politely avoids commenting on their mother, even though he’s already made up his mind about her apparent negligence. Instead of voicing all the biting words burning his throat with the need to be let out into the cooling breeze running above both their heads, he simply hums to let Ubbe know he’s still listening to his sweet reminiscing.

“I think I was the least rebellious… I want to think that. Hvitserk stole food from the kitchens for us all and cheered us all up every day. Sigurd suffered, but he hid it well. And Ivar…” A brief pause, a sigh, a half-hooded look to Heahmund’s sword, “… there are things he learnt quicker than he should have.”

The silence Ubbe falls into is neither flattering or kind. Heahmund recognises it by pure instinct; it’s the same introspective mood he falls into whenever he thinks for too long about his own upbringing. Norse words flow forth before he can stop them.

“So you were never a child, Hvitserk has not changed an ounce, Ivar will always be Ivar, and whoever Sigurd is, he remains unseen.”

“That’s… a good way of putting it.” Ubbe’s gaze jumps from Heahmund’s sheath to his face as he speaks; the Bishop swears he can still see a faint frown in Ubbe’s face in spite of the growing shadows surrounding them. “Sigurd was our brother too, older than Ivar and younger than Hvitserk. You will never see Sigurd, though. He died years ago.”

“My condolences.” Heahmund quickly offers in English, for he refuses to use the Old Norse he’s heard _Vikingar_ use for their fallen comrades. It sounds too reverential, too like invoking Heathen Deities to assure the departed a pleasant voyage into their version of the afterlife.

“… “condolences” my arse.” Ubbe half-growls. There’s more of a warning in his eyes than there is in his voice. “You don’t regret that. You don’t feel for us. For you, it’s just one Heathen less to kill.”

Heahmund returns the stare with one of his darkest ones, head pounding with the same ache he’d felt coming earlier. He has half a mind to press onwards like he does when Ivar steps out of line, because keeping up the predatory appearance is better than letting his enemies know of his secret weaknesses, but the world spins on its own axis.

He tilts his head until the back of it touches the wall behind him. It’s cold, raspy; Heahmund swears he can feel how loose gravel and dust accumulate in his hair, turning it from black to grey. The world keeps on spinning around him, and so he braces his mind against it and keeps his gaze as centred on Ubbe’s shifting form as he possibly can. It is only now he realises that he should never have pushed his physical body this far. Fasting is a good way of repenting for his sins, as is ascetism, but there are some limits that should not be crossed; and especially not when under the exertion of having to march alongside a full-fledged army.

When his eyes re-focus enough to truly see Ubbe once again, the Heathen has not backed down. Heahmund maintains his own stare too, but refuses to engage him in any other way. Ubbe is much too tired to measure his words as well as he should; and if he’s looking for another sparring round, he’ll have to wait until he’s not about to fall apart from hunger and lack of sleep – and you should fuck and rest too, whispers an insidious voice inside Heahmund’s mind; it sounds suspiciously close to how Ivar had pronounced his name while seated astride his thighs.

“Bishop.”

Heahmund nods his head slightly, acknowledging that Ubbe’s tone indicates that he’s about to ask something of Heahmund. His left hand tightens marginally around his sword’s handle; he cannot even remember when it moved there, but reckons it probably was when Ubbe’s gaze fell on it. He’s always been quite protective of his sword, because having it at the ready has too often been the difference between gaining a new scar and a close-call with Death Themself.

“Where do you sleep?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Heahmund growls in English before he remembers that he’d already decided to use Old Norse exclusively for Ubbe’s sake. He doesn’t back down even when he recalls that fact; Ubbe smiles to show he’s understood every word and bites back in Old Norse, not at all unlike how his youngest brother would do.

“Oh, but it is. I need to know if I have to spend my time with one of my brothers, or with both.”

Heahmund frowns at the implications that Ubbe has so far refused to engage with in any meaningful way. There’s something unsettling about being so blatantly accused of spending more time than what’s socially acceptable with a precious Ragnarsson; at the same time, though, it doesn’t feel like an insult. If anything, it only serves as another little reminder of how acutely he’s been aching for the past week.

“If I see your youngest brother, I will grab him by the scruff of his neck.”

“Good!” Ubbe opens his arms as wide as they can go, shrugs his shoulders like he couldn’t care less; still, Heahmund can see the dangerous flash of his eyes, and the glint of his fangs as he forms every word, “Maybe you can put some sense into that thick skull of his. Lately it’s like he only listens to you. Some even say that you’re working _seiðr_ on him.”

Heahmund acts as though he’s understood exactly what Ubbe has accused him of; alas, his knowledge of Norse customs and religion only really goes so far. Maybe he could convince Ivar to tell him more… or he could, if the boy weren’t acting like the petulant brat that Heahmund has always known he is.

God Almighty, why must his every thought circle back to those deep eyes and that dark smile and those warm hands…

“They won’t say it to your face, though. They’re too afraid of you.” Ubbe keeps on talking, acting to all effects and purposes like he hasn’t noticed a lick of Heahmund’s inner turmoil.

“And you are not.”

“No, I am not. I’ve sparred with you, remember? I know what you can do.”

Heahmund strategically doesn’t point out that he’d been wounded enough to not be able to hold his sword two-handed, which had limited his repertoire and made him an easier adversary to beat. Ubbe is not a man he wants to anger; especially not after seeing the quiet beast’s claws and fangs from such a close range. Besides, Heahmund knows by now enough of the relationships between the three brothers to know he’s been allowed to live thus far solely on Ivar’s demand. If the boy revokes that twisted kind of protection, there’s no telling how impulsive Hvitserk and protective Ubbe will react.

“And your brothers? Do they fear me?”

Ubbe’s smirk doesn’t reach his eyes when he leans forward, his whole posture made entirely of hinted meanings and coiled strength.

“Why don’t you go find Ivar and ask him yourself?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to be honest here; online research said a deep wound heals in 10 days, but that seems inaccurate to my non-medically-trained brain, so beware of that in this fic. Heahmund may take too short a time to heal, I don’t even know, please correct me!
> 
> Berserkr is the Old Norse word for warriors who fight in a trance-like fury (some sources claim they were intoxicated with mushrooms while fighting). English spells it as “berserker”.
> 
> About the horse’s face’s: a “blaze” is the name for a broad, white marking going from the horse’s forehead down to the nose. See [this webpage](https://equine-world.co.uk/info/about-horses/horse-colours-and-markings/horse-head-markings) for more details.
> 
> Vísi mínn means “my prince” in Old Norse.
> 
> About the scenery: for reference, I used [this picture](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EnXoRleWMAggXoz.jpg) of a Roman bathhouse’s ruins in the videogame Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla. I’ve adapted some details to better fit my story, though!
> 
> Quick note: every single Jarl I mention is 100% fictional. I’ve seen that the correct order is to say the name before the title; hence Halfdan Jarl (instead of Jarl Halfdan like English would do). Also that name was chosen because it was super common back then; I’m not referring to Halfdan the Black!
> 
> Seiðr means “magic” in Old Norse; specifically a type of magic practised by women, not by men. Still, Odin practises it, and he’s not seen as any less masculine for it!


	10. Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: mentions of a wounded horse (not described explicitly), mentions of sexual content, religious guilt, a character biting themselves so hard that they draw blood. The writing doesn’t quite reach the levels of predator/prey present in primal play, but it can be read as such.
> 
> Fair warning: the next chapter contains explicit sexual content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is [a song from Disturbed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ITO1LMYZakw), but don’t look at the lyrics!
> 
> In this chapter, Heahmund’s hungers and frustrations grow too potent to ignore, and so he finds himself confronting the personification of his darkest desires, who can barely keep up but refuses to yield without a fight.

Night has fallen down upon the Roman ruins by the time Heahmund leaves his seat at the uppermost step of the staircase outside the bathhouse. He slowly follows the same path Ubbe took hours ago, descending to the main courtyard.

More than a handful of horses bump into one another and bend their necks to drink from the twin shallow pools carved into the ground at either side of the road leading to the bathhouse’s main doors. The water is murky, more green than blue due to all the tiny plants growing at the pools’ bottom; Heahmund can even see a horse munching on some undetermined greenery, which the animal has bitten directly off the water’s surface.

As he rounds the staircase’s starting point, a powerful-looking, white stallion huffs and pushes a smaller mare until it gains better access to the pool. The mare protests loudly, but yields before the horse can bite at her neck; her moving away causes moonlight to fall more directly on the white stallion, illuminating the rounded scar on its neck. Heahmund instantly recognises it as the mark left by an arrow-wound. It’s also a good sign to see Ivar’s horse in good shape after it was wounded in the battle at York; and not only because its presence means Ivar is definitely nearby.

When Heahmund enters the bathhouse, the first thing that hits his nose is the faint and pleasant smell of cooked food. His stomach growls again, although not loud enough to alert the two shield-maidens who shoulder past him. One has her muscled arm around her partner’s waist, their mutual and lascivious intentions clear in how they look at each other, barely even noticing that Heahmund is there. He doesn’t take it to heart, of course; it serves his purposes much better to remain unseen, just a shadow clad in black armour as he moves through the bathhouse’s dark corridors.

Hvitserk’s boisterous laugh almost makes him jump out of his own skin; and even more so when it’s echoed by Ubbe’s voice shooting some quick lines in Old Norse that Heahmund refuses to focus on. He’s already had his fair share of both those Ragnarssons for the time being, thank God very much; he’d rather take his chances with the youngest brother than be forced to withstand Hvitserk’s clumsy flirting or Ubbe’s apparently all-knowing eyes.

The scarce moonlight coming in from the partly-dilapidated roof illuminates his path in a pale scale of greys as he avoids vying to the right, for that’s the direction that Hvitserk’s and Ubbe’s voices came from. Instead, Heahmund takes the leftmost corridor; it’s the darkest, emptiest part of the bathhouse’s central plant, and the one area Heahmund would claim for himself if he wanted to remain completely alone and undisturbed all night long. For better or for worse, he’s painfully aware of how similar his way of strategizing it to Ivar’s own – there simply is no doubt that Ivar lurks in these shadows, and God and Gods help him if Heahmund gets his hands on his warm, inked skin…

Hunger throbs deep within his veins with every step he takes forward, checking each doorless jamb for the odd chance of finding his prey inside. Most doors are tiny due to the building’s inner walls having caved in at certain places; murky rainwater pools in holes there where the tiled floor is broken. The bathhouse is in worse shape inside than it was when seen from the outside; which makes sense when Heahmund mentally goes over whatever little he can remember of England’s history. The exact chronology escapes him, much as it escaped him even as he was forced to learn about it, but he’d like to think that it’s been around four hundred years already since the Romans abandoned England.

His search of the main plant’s left side leaves him bereft of his target and reeling from having seen more than a handful of people tangled in quite compromising postures. Sometimes he didn’t even catch them in the middle of outright sex, but merely leaning on one another as they slept; and yet Heahmund mood still sours considerably. His racing thoughts cannot stop recalling how warm and solid Ivar’s weight had been that one time he’d cuddled so intimately close to Heahmund’s side – by God, what kind of penance is even left for him to take when neither his body or mind can focus on anything other than these dark sins…

He tries to not succumb to the ravenous whispers swirling in his mind, in his soul.

Ultimately, however, they win.

Heahmund bites down on his lower lip until his teeth almost pierce his own skin to retain whatever little concentration and self-awareness he has left. This task should feel like nothing but second nature to him, the Sword of God whose senses have been honed in a million battles; and yet now it’s one of the greatest challenges he’s ever faced in his entire life. He’s so affected by his own lust, by the effects that fasting and abstinence have on his crumbling consciousness, that he needs to lean a hand on the handrail of the stairs leading to the bathhouse’s second floor. The gesture reminds him of how Ubbe had had to do the same exact thing some hours ago; and that, in turn, has him wondering if he is really as exhausted as Ubbe had looked, or even more.

The second floor is, in truth, nothing more than a thin balcony following the outer walls, leaving the vision of the lower floor’s centre unobstructed. In other times, it’d been easy to recognise the design made by the minuscule tiles in the bathhouse’s ground-floor; alas, they crumbled into obscurity a long time ago already. Heahmund doesn’t pay much attention to them, anyway; he’s much too occupied with keeping a hand on the rail just in case his legs decide to give way from underneath him. There might be nobody around, but that doesn’t mean he especially fancies having to crawl his way around like he’s been body-swapped with Ivar.

At least this second floor, if it can even be called that, is slightly better illuminated than the one below, since the roof is so ruined that moonlight descends directly upon him. There’s only one door on this side of the building, and so Heahmund makes his slow way towards it, unsurprised to see the walls have broken down and blocked its doorway almost completely. Only a sliver remains, too small for him to fit through; perhaps a child could slither their way in, or small animals like squirrels and rabbits, and maybe even a cat, but definitely not a fully-grown man.

This leaves him with one door more to investigate; the one mirroring the blocked doorway at the bathhouse’s other side. Heahmund doesn’t even know whether he should bless or curse whoever designed this building to be so perfectly symmetrical, leaving its half-ruined state aside, of course. His stomach and his crotch are protesting loudly and refusing to take a single step more, albeit for very different reasons, by the time he follows the second’s floor balustrade all the way around. He feels about to give up his endeavours of finding Ivar and putting the impossibly irritating boy in his place; surely nobody would miss him if he simply laid down in this second floor to sleep away from the brunt of the Great Heathen Army, away from Hvitserk and Ubbe. They certainly have not missed him for a single second thus far. Not even the blue-eyed Prince he used to spend so much time with seems to miss him at all.

The doorframe in front of him still has a door, which is surprising and promising on equal measures. Heahmund walks up to it and takes one good look at its half-rotten wood as he leans one shoulder against the wall, intentionally keeping himself as far away from the balustrade as he can. The second floor’s height respective to the first isn’t so tall, but a fall from here could still be very dangerous; potentially deadly, even, if he manages to land at an odd angle. It’s best to play it safe.

His hand has moved to knock his knuckles against the firm wood before his mind can catch up with the rest of his body.

“ _Láttu mig vera!_ ”

Heahmund allows himself to smirk a secret smirk, for he knows he’s alone in this second floor, and that was undoubtedly Ivar’s sweet voice ordering him to go away. A certain kind of low fire starts to simmer within Heahmund’s blood; it’s entirely possible, however, that it was already there, and he’s only fully aware of it now that he’s found his prey. There’s a faint ruckus coming in from the other side of the closed door, as if the boy general were moving things around. Heahmund cannot stop the hammering of his heart against his ribcage, nor the thrumming of blood in his temples.

“ _Ivar_.” His growl causes the sounds from within the room to stop. Heahmund does not bother trying to dissimulate nor hide his smirk. He leans his arm and back more fully against the wall, causing his back to arch at a low angle. It’s almost the same posture he takes while fighting defensively. “Open up. We need to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Ivar’s pronunciation in English is just as accented as Heahmund remembers it; he resents the door for somewhat muffling the boy’s volume. “Go away.”

“I won’t.”

“… please.”

“I won’t go away no matter how nicely you ask me.”

“Why not?!”

“You know why.”

Heahmund is so sure that Ivar will fight him back, and so ready to retort something clever, something biting, in return, that the sudden silence astonishes him. His defences dissolve more and more the longer it stretches, until they fade into nothingness; and yet Ivar remains silent, and probably unmoving. The only sounds Heahmund can hear come from the floor below and from outside the bathhouse. Thankfully, he doesn’t recognise any voices in particular; it seems that Hvitserk and Ubbe have both gone to sleep already. Good. He doesn’t have to fear having to confront either brother, should Ivar call upon them; not that Heahmund truly fears having to fight any Heathen, of course. It’s just a comfortably warm feeling to know he’s alone with Ivar – and may God prevent him from analysing the reasons behind that…!

“… if I let you in, will you kill me?”

Ivar’s voice is so thin, so fragile even, that Heahmund’s heart skips a beat in the most uncomfortable way possible. It takes him a long moment to gather his thoughts, for his feelings are much more elusive; and another moment still passes before he answers.

“No, Ivar. I won’t.”

“Alright…”

In the very few minutes it takes for the bolt to slide out of its lock, Heahmund’s mind has managed to convince him that what Ivar had truly meant by that was an implicit declaration of trust. A mutual one, he must admit; but instead of putting it into spoken words, he simply waits for another long moment before gently pushing the door opened. It’s merely a courtesy, because he doesn’t know if Ivar walked or crawled to slide the lock out of place; and if it was the latter option, then he needs a little bit more time to get out of the door’s swinging area.

When Heahmund enters the dimly-illuminated room, the first thing he does is turn his back to everything inside and slide the lock back, effectively trapping himself and Ivar together. Usually, he would’ve kept the door opened and tested the lock a couple times, because it’s as old as the rest of the building, and most likely half-rusted already; at the same time, though, he’s painfully aware that Ivar thinks in much the same way Heahmund himself does. The boy has undoubtedly tested the metal bolt extensively before sliding it into place the first time; and so, there should be no real risk of it getting stuck now.

The thought of being stuck in a room with Ivar, of all people, for who knows how many hours, travels from his mind to his crotch, stopping at his heart until it skips a beat.

Heahmund sighs as heavily as his lungs’ capacity allows him to. He turns around slowly, as though to give Ivar time to look away if he was staring at him. Wishful thinking at best, Heahmund knows – if this boy has not missed him at all by now, he will not stare.

And yet the first thing he sees is a pair of painfully blue eyes looking directly at his face. There’s a certain sorrow within their depths, a vulnerability that Ivar hides from everybody else; Heahmund’s heart attempts a somersault at the realisation that this boy _does_ trust him immensely if he’s allowing him to see him like this. Heahmund doesn’t dare look away from Ivar while he steps closer to the centre of the room, one hand leant on his sword’s belt, the other hanging limp at his side.

Ivar is the first to break their eye-contact, turning his head towards the side of the room in which he’s laid his blankets on. Dark hair cascades thick enough to hide most of his profile from Heahmund’s greedy gaze; he longs for nothing but to set it aside with his naked fingers, just to feel how soft the locks are, just to listen to Ivar’s feeble attempts at containing those sweet whines and moans he always lets out when Heahmund touches his hair.

“You’re armed and armoured. That’s not fair.”

“Is that your way of ordering me to undress?” Heahmund cannot help but tease in English, heart aflame from how easy it is to simply speak without carefully measuring his words and curtailing his natural accent first. “From what I remember, you’re blunter than that.”

Ivar almost giggles at that, though he’s taken so little air that it ends up sounding more like a short-lived chuckle. He turns his pretty head to the side just enough to watch as Heahmund unbuckles his sword’s belt and wraps it around the sheath, buckling it once again so it won’t slide right off the scabbard. Then, he leans his sword against the tiled wall nearest to the spot where Ivar placed his blankets; unsurprisingly, the boy’s various axes and daggers are arranged nearby too.

“You’re not wearing your cross.” Ivar’s sharp observation distracts Heahmund’s hands from their task of undoing each clasp at the front of his torso.

His leather armour is half-opened by the time he simply nods his head towards his sword, Ivar’s gaze following suit. The motion, although very slight and slow, still causes some locks to slide around the boy’s broad shoulder, falling down his front instead. When Ivar looks back at him, Heahmund’s already shrugging his leather off his own shoulders. A sly smile appears in Ivar’s face; Heahmund finds it almost impossible to not mirror it, for he’s suddenly, painfully, aware of just how much he’s missed its brilliant sight.

“You look better now.”

“How, unarmed and unarmoured?”

“That, too. But it’s not what I meant.”

“Godless Heathen…” Heahmund’s voice is naught but a dark growl as he accuses the boy of preferring him when he doesn’t wear a wooden cross around his neck. As sharp as his gaze and smirk are, there’s no real mirth behind his words; only the liberating relief that comes with knowing he hasn’t yet been rejected outright.

“Prickly Christian.” Ivar replies without missing a beat. He doesn’t lower his head when Heahmund moves to sit across him on the floor, right in the centre of the room, but his eyelids drop as his gaze sweeps downwards over Heahmund’s body. Appraising, if he dares describe such an intense look in any way. “Remind me why I let you in.”

“Because I asked you nicely.”

“You did not. You just barged in uninvited. What a guest…” Ivar’s gaze suddenly jumps from whatever indeterminate point of Heahmund’s body he was looking at and focuses on his face instead.

Pale moonlight rains down on Ivar, giving metallic reflections to his dark hair and making all illuminated points of his irises gleam wonderfully aflame. Heahmund leans a gloved hand on the ground behind him and lets his spine relax, hoping that that same pale moonlight will fall upon his own eyes even half as beautifully as it does on Ivar’s; he’s been told in the past that his irises can look silver in the right light, and that the effect is a hauntingly beautiful one. Heahmund has never truly known how much of that was mere pillow-talk and how much was genuine, but it doesn’t stop him from indulging in some more wishful thinking.

“Is that what I am to you now? A “guest”, not a prisoner anymore?”

Ivar opens his mouth as if to speak, but no sound comes out. His gaze breaks away from Heahmund’s face and falls onto his ruffled blankets. His lips remain parted when he stammers over his own breath. Heahmund can faintly see him swallow before attempting to speak again; and when he does, his Old Norse is as tentative as his English tends to be.

“… you… saved me. You bled for me.”

“I was merely in the way.” Heahmund’s tone is soft, for he’s intentionally keeping the growl away from his voice even when he’s firm enough to let Ivar know that his opinion will not be easily shifted. What he cannot contain, however, is neither his Irish accent, nor the urge to untuck his undershirt from his trousers and lift its left, lower hem to show a fresh scar. Ivar’s expression flickers at the vision of its rugged edges, although both know the blade’s edge hadn’t been serrated, and so it’ll fade into a smooth curve in due time. “And, as you can see, it’s healed by now. There’s no point in dwelling on it.”

“You only know part of it.” Ivar insists in Old Norse, leaning his elbows on his thighs. Heahmund’s gaze instantly goes to his eyes, suddenly fearful of seeing spilled ink within them. If Ivar notices his staring, he does not say.

“Explain it to me, then. Tell me what really happened.”

“Alright…” Ivar sighs, looking at Heahmund’s chest. He grows self-conscious in a second, even when he’s still wearing a dark undershirt that protects his skin from having to withstand the scorching heat of Ivar’s gaze. “You fought around me, I couldn’t do a lot because I was not on my war-chariot…” Heahmund smiles at the irritation colouring the handsome boy’s every word, “… then you killed almost all of them. One charged at us, attacked me, but you didn’t have time to attack him, so you just looked at me. He wounded you, then I killed him, and you fell.”

A comfortable silence follows Ivar’s words while Heahmund considers everything he’s just said, carefully turning them around in his mind to try and extract some meaning from them other than the one he’s already come to terms with. When put into such a concise tale, there’s truly no two ways about it; Heahmund willingly took the hit for Ivar instead of murdering the attacker. Still, there’s a tiny detail that, in his expert opinion, changes everything.

“Ivar, I hadn’t even seen him. I hadn’t seen him charging nor attacking, I thought we were safe.”

Ivar frowns, his expression becoming the perfect definition of adorable confusion. Heahmund’s abdomen quivers; the simmering fire from before had been subdued while he was more focused on carrying a coherent conversation out, but it’s now reappeared in full force. He can only hope that the dim light and his undershirt haven’t let Ivar see him trembling.

Suddenly, the boy smirks his usual, mischievous grin. Heahmund knows him well enough to recognise the gesture as the one Ivar does when he’s come up with an especially brilliant plan – and by God, if it’s even half as brilliant as Ivar himself, Heahmund might not be able to resist the urge to gather him tightly into his arms…

“But nobody knows that, Heahmund. They think you willingly saved me, and they respect you for it. Some don’t see you as a prisoner anymore, because you fought with us and defended me, their Prince. They think you should be rewarded with an arm-ring, and placed always at my side. Not in chains.”

Upon hearing those heated, comforting words, something deep and dark awakes within Heahmund.

He slowly shifts in place until he’s kneeling and turned towards Ivar, ever the wild creature ready to pounce on his adversaries and triumph over them. The boy simply looks at him with half-parted lips and hooded eyelids; the very definition that Heahmund would give when asked to describe how someone acts when innocently untouched by anyone. He already knows Ivar doesn’t quite fit that description, however; this handsome boy is just as dangerous as Heahmund himself.

“I do not care what they think, Ivar.”

“Because they’re Heathens?”

“Because they’re not _you_.”

Ivar gasps, then growls; his body slithers up the length of Heahmund’s own before he can do anything other than fruitlessly try to support Ivar’s weight atop of his own and not topple over. Predictably, because his posture hadn’t even been stable to begin with, Heahmund falls backwards, his spine painfully paying its respects to the ground. A groan escapes his mouth at the sudden ache; he growls anew when Ivar’s hands take hold of his own, making him wish he’d taken off not only his armour, but his gloves as well.

“Say that again.”

Heahmund’s lips part on their own volition upon seeing Ivar’s face so deliciously close to his own. His gaze falls to the boy’s mouth; it looks as soft and kissable as ever before; Hell, even _more_ than ever, due to how they’ve been apart for seven torturous days and nights. Heahmund cannot let go of all the questions he wants to ask Ivar about that, about all the reasons behind his actions – but damn his soul into Hell forevermore, he also cannot deny anything to Ivar.

“I don’t care what your Army thinks, Ivar, because they’re not you.”

Ivar’s smile is a slow little thing at first, although it grows wide and brilliant until it overtakes his factions. The glow reaches his eyes, setting them alight from within. When he tries to shift forward, though, some part of him digs uncomfortably into Heahmund’s ribs, making him growl.

“ _Uuuhhh_ …”

“You’re not used to being touched, are you?”

Ivar doesn’t respond immediately to Heahmund’s tease; which makes sense, for he must surely be quite distracted by how Heahmund’s broken free of his grasp and taken a firm hold of Ivar’s waist in a second, correcting how the boy lays atop him. Heahmund can feel Ivar’s body-warmth through the thin layer of cloth covering him from the hips up. He wishes he could simply rip it off the boy’s body, turn them around yet keep an arm underneath Ivar’s head to support his neck.

Hunger and instincts scream from the tight confines of his crotch.

Ivar seems to struggle with himself for a moment; then, his body undulates against Heahmund’s own in a way that reminds him of a viper slithering on the floor. Ivar’s arms rest on either side of Heahmund’s head, his loose hair falling around them both and caging them in, almost as if sheltering them from unwanted eyes just as much as the locked door does. To Heahmund’s delight, Ivar is either too shy or too eager to look him in the eye as he undulates his body again, his chest pressing down on Heahmund’s in an unmistakable caress.

“If you wanted to be touched this desperately, you should’ve let me know days ago…”

Ivar actually _blushes_ at that, his gaze focused on the half-full curve of Heahmund’s smirk. Heahmund allows him to have a moment to compose himself, to shape his thoughts into something resembling coherence. Then he lightens the hold of his right hand on the boy’s waist and runs it up his side, sliding it underneath Ivar’s arm and over his collarbone before reaching his chin and tilting it upwards. Their eyes meet for a split second; Ivar quickly looks away, his gaze darting everywhere except for Heahmund’s face.

“I’ve got two questions for you and no idea about how difficult answering them will be for you, so choose which one you want to answer first.”

Ivar protests with a half-formed word when Heahmund’s hand leaves his face; his voice dissolves into a breathless moan the moment it tangles in his hair, setting the locks away from his factions. The dark shadow remains on his cheeks as visible proof that he’s still blushing; Heahmund loves to see it, for it means he’s the only person whom he’s seen so far that can make Ivar the Boneless blush like an innocent, untouched boy.

“… make your questions.” Heahmund’s eyes half-close the moment he feels Ivar’s warm breath on his own lips; when he reopens them a second later, the boy is still staring at his mouth.

“One; why do your men think you should reward me with an arm-ring? And two; if you want me to touch you, why didn’t you wake me up when you touched _me?_ ”

Upon hearing that last question, Ivar immediately tenses and tries to flee, his body skilfully starting to roll to one side. Heahmund is incredibly aware of how easy it’d be to take hold of Ivar’s lower body to halt his escape, but the sole idea seems so unnecessarily cruel that he mentally hits himself for even having thought of it in the first place. Instead, he brings his arms around Ivar’s shoulders and moves with him, which leaves him atop an awfully distressed boy.

“Ivar.” Heahmund lets him struggle, although both know deep down that it’s just for show; Ivar’s legs are caged in between Heahmund’s own, and the back of his neck is being supported by Heahmund’s forearm. There simply is no conceivable way in which Ivar could break free of his grasp without Heahmund allowing him to. “I’m not going to hurt you. But I _do_ deserve to know both those things, and you _know_ it.”

“A King gives an arm-ring to his most loyal _Vikingar_ …” One of Ivar’s hands slide to Heahmund’s shoulder and finds the hem of his undershirt.

Heahmund groans when the boy pulls on the fabric to expose more of his cleavage to Ivar’s eyes; thankfully, there’s no spilled ink in them, although the pupils are so blown that Heahmund almost couldn’t differentiate the natural blue from that terrible ink. Their dark depths distract him to the point of jumping when Ivar’s other hand slides underneath his clothes and touches the fresh scar at his side. The boy giggles shamelessly at his acute reaction, which prompts a fond, yet heavy, sigh to leave Heahmund’s lips.

Somehow, Ivar’s hand on his side is more heated than Heahmund’s own skin.

“… you shielded me. That shows loyalty. Therefore, I must give you an arm-ring. I have none here, I’ll have it done as soon as I can… so tell me, do you prefer silver or gold?”

“Need you ask?”

Ivar giggles again, giddy and free. The sound rebounds on the half-ruined walls, filling the whole room with the same naughtiness that Heahmund has so painfully missed. The hand that Ivar has on his side travels upwards, raising his undershirt even more. The cold coming in from the outside bites into Heahmund’s flesh; it’s such a contrast from his own heat that he doesn’t protest.

“Silver for you.” Ivar declares, smiling one of his mischievous, blinding smiles. Heahmund feels how one corner of his own mouth tugs upwards; only then does he realise that Ivar is staring deeply into his eyes. “Ubbe was right, you don’t have blue eyes.”

The sudden mention of the eldest Ragnarsson makes Heahmund groan and bow his head until he can rest his forehead on Ivar’s shoulder. It’s only slightly uncomfortable, since he still is supporting the boy’s neck, but he doesn’t mind. The discomfort gives him another thing to focus on instead of in his own hungers; now that he’s pressed so close to Ivar’s warm body, it takes a lot for him to will his treacherous cock to not harden. If it did, the conversation would end, and he would be left without the answers he’s looked for so desperately this past week. An unacceptable outcome.

“Must you mention him?”

“Well, he said you have grey eyes, not blue.”

“And he’s right. Now, can we _please_ go back to the conversation at hand?”

“Why, you don’t like my brothers?”

“I prefer you.”

Ivar downright _moans_ at the raw admission. Heahmund bites his own lip to not succumb to the sudden, dark urge to capture Ivar’s mouth with his own. The impulse is so potent that resisting it leaves him trembling. His left shoulder hurts more and more the longer he stays in this posture – and yet he doesn’t move, for God will smite him down for his sins before he denies Ivar the comfort of being held so carefully.

“Did you bite yourself? You’re bleeding on me.”

Instead of answering with words, Heahmund simply raises his head from Ivar’s shoulder and lets the boy take a good look at him. He swears he can feel how Ivar’s whole abdomen quivers when his breathing falters, gaze affixed to Heahmund’s closed mouth. Perhaps to give the entranced boy a show, maybe due to sheer force of habit, Heahmund opens his lips and prods at the cut at his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. He tastes the metallic twinge of his own blood and lets it spread through his mouth; but he doesn’t do anything to stop the bleeding.

Ivar’s hands join one another at the back of his neck and hold him in place with a firm touch, although it’s also quite gentle. Heahmund certainly would’ve never expected such a caress from someone as blood-thirsty as Ivar undeniably is; but the naked truth is that, precisely because of it, he can feel his sped-up heartbeat at his crotch. It seems that willing his own erection away will not do much anymore – God forgive him the sins he’s about to commit…

“Answer me, Ivar.” The boy’s gaze follows the blood at his mouth as he speaks, “If you want me to touch you, why didn’t you wake me up when you touched _me?_ ”

“I… didn’t touch you.”

Heahmund chuckles full of darkness and danger at Ivar’s irreverent, blatant lie. It would be lovely to allow him to continue believing that he got away with that; but if he really wants his questions answered, there is no other way except for setting the record straight. As painful as it’s going to be.

“I was awake, Ivar. You woke me up. I simply didn’t let you know.”

“ _HVAT?!_ ”

Heahmund frowns at Ivar’s louder-than-loud volume; his head pounds with the headache brought on by having his stomach empty for too long. Both of Ivar’s hands hold him by the collar, although Heahmund cannot tell whether the boy wants him away from him, or even closer to his body.

“Don’t shout, I can hear you just fine.” Ivar opens his mouth to protest anew, but Heahmund’s accented English is quicker than the boy’s harsh Old Norse, “You wouldn’t have done it if you knew I was awake, and you cannot tell me that you _didn’t_ enjoy it just as much as I did.”

“Oh, haven’t you just answered yourself?” Ivar’s eyes flash with what Heahmund knows is cobalt blue, “I didn’t wake you up because, if you’d been awake, I wouldn’t have done anything to you!”

“And yet you touched me all the same.” Heahmund accommodates his arm under Ivar’s neck and draws closer, and closer, until he can growl every single syllable into his ear, “You bit me so hard that some of the marks didn’t fade until yesterday. You took my cock out of my trousers and held me in your hand… and you made sure I didn’t stay hard all night long, didn’t you?”

Underneath him, Ivar can only tremble and moan. Heahmund brushes his lips on the narrow space behind his ear, coaxing another sweet sound out of him.

“Allow me to return the favour.”

“Y-you can’t… I…”

“Why do you think I mind?” Heahmund whispers into his ear, keeping as much of his natural growl as he can; at this volume, however, it morphs into a rasp, “Maybe your past lovers just didn’t take the proper time with you. Maybe they were too eager to get to your cock and neglected the rest of you.”

Ivar moans slightly louder than before. His hands have slid around Heahmund’s neck; now they tighten their hold around him, pulling him closer. Heahmund hums his agreement and Ivar trembles in his arms like a leaf caught in the gale.

“And, _Ivar_ …” A new moan at how he pronounced his name, “… you forget one important thing.”

“W-which is…?”

Heahmund smirks against the boy’s neck. His lust roars within his veins. When he undulates his body with all the expertise that his ample experience has bestowed upon him, Ivar audibly chokes on his own breath.

“I know many, _many_ ways to make you orgasm without your cock being so hard it aches.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Láttu mig vera means “leave me alone” in (modern) Icelandic. It’s the closest (modern) language to Old Norse; and since I couldn’t find a translation into Old Norse, I used (modern) Icelandic instead. Sorry!
> 
> About arm rings: they weren’t just ornamental; they were symbols of loyalty that a Lord bestowed unto their most loyal, deserving warriors.
> 
> I LIVE for grey-eyed Heahmund, so I just had to include that detail in this story somehow!
> 
> Hvat means “what” in Old Norse.


End file.
